AWOMANOF 
YESTERDAY 


CAROLINE -A- MASON 


DUKE  UNIVERSITY 


LIBRARY 


The  Glenn  Negley  Collection 
of  Utopian  Literature 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2010  with  funding  from 
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http://www.archive.org/details/womanofyesterdayOOmaso 


A   WOMAN    OF    YESTERDAY 


____________ " 


A 
Woman  of  Yesterday 


BY 


CAROLINE   A.    MASON 

AUTHOR   OF   "A   MINISTER    OF  THE   WORLD,"    "THE 

MINISTER   OF    CARTHAGE,"    "A   WIND 

FLOWER,"    ETC. 


"  There  are,  it  may  be,  so  many  kinds  of  voices  in  the 
■world,  and  none  of  them  is  without  signification." 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE   &    CO. 

1900 


Copyright,    1900,   by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE   &   COMPANY 


Norwood  Press 

J.  S.  Cusbing  &  Co. — Berwick  &  Smith 

Norwood  Mass.   U.S.A. 


Our  share  of  night  to  bear, 
Our  share  of  morning, 

Our  blank  in  bliss  to  fill, 
Our  blank  in  scorning. 

Here  a  star,  and  there  a  star, 

Some  lose  their  way. 
Here  a  mist,  and  there  a  mist, 

Afterwards  —  day  ! 

Emily  Dickinson. 


e 

■/1 398  W 


Contents 


Book      I.      Morning 
Book    II.      Afternoon 
Book  III.      Night 


Page 
I 

l3* 
219 


BOOK  I 

MORNING 


CHAPTER   I 

I  rise  and  raise  my  clasped  hands  to  Thee  ! 
Henceforth,  the  darkness  hath  no  part  in  me, 

Thy  sacrifice  this  day,  — 
Abiding  firm,  and  with  a  freeman's  might 
Stemming  the  waves  of  passion  in  the  fight. 

— John  Henry  Newman. 

Where  the  Monk  River  makes  its  way  through  the 
mountain  wall  in  one  of  the  northern  counties  of  Ver- 
mont, lies  the  small,  white  village  of  Haran.  Although 
isolated  and  remote  from  the  world,  unknown  and  uncon- 
sidered beyond  certain  narrow  limits,  this  village  pos- 
sessed, forty  years  ago,  a  local  importance  as  being  the 
county  town,  the  seat  also  of  a  Young  Ladies'  Seminary 
of  some  reputation,  and  an  Orthodox  church  which 
boasted  a  line  of  ministers  of  exalted  piety  and  scholarly 
attainment. 

The  incumbent  in  the  year  1869  was  the  Rev.  Samuel 
Mallison.  His  pastorate  had  now  extended  over  twenty 
years,  and  he  was  reverenced  far  beyond  the  bounds  of 
his  parish  for  learning  and  godliness. 

It  was  a  June  Saturday  night  in  that  year,  and  the 
hour  was  late.  In  the  low-roofed  garret  of  the  parsonage 
of  Haran  the  figure  of  a  tall,  thin  girl  with  a  candle  in 
her  hand  moved  swiftly  and  softly  to  the  head  of  a  steep 
flight  of  stairs,  which  gave  access  to  the  garret  from  the 
floor  below.      Some  one  had  called  her  name. 

"  Yes,  father,"  she  returned,  and  a  certain  vibration 
of  restrained   feeling  was  perceptible  in   her  voice,  "  it 

3 


4  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

was  I.  I  am  sorry  I  disturbed  you.  Were  you 
asleep  ?  " 

All  was  dark  below,  and  no  person  could  be  seen,  but 
again  came  the  man's  voice. 

"  What  were  you  doing,  Anna  ?  "   was  the  question. 

"Only  putting  away  — "  here  the  girl  faltered  and 
stopped  speaking.  The  candle  in  her  hand  shook,  and 
threw  a  strange,  wavering  shadow  of  her  shape  upon  the 
long,  rough  timbers  of  the  wall.  The  roof  was  so  low 
where  she  stood  that  of  necessity  her  head  was  bent 
sharply  forward.  The  outline  of  her  shoulders  was 
meagre  and  angular;  her  arms  and  body  had  neither  the 
grace  of  a  girl  nor  the  curves  of  a  woman ;  they  were 
simply  lean  and  long.  There  was  something  of  lofti- 
ness, and  even  of  beauty,  in  the  face,  but  the  cheeks  were 
hollow,  the  lines  all  lacking  in  softness.  The  ensetnble 
was  grave  and  strenuous  for  a  girl  of  eighteen. 

She  began  again. 

"  I  was  nailing  up  that  box  of  books,  you  remember. 
I  thought  now,  you  know,  I  ought  to  do  it." 

Something  like  a  groan  seemed  to  float  up  from  the 
darkness  below.  There  was  no  other  reply  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  the  father's  voice  said  slowly  :  — 

"  To  take  back  later  such  an  action  is  a  greater  vio- 
lation of  the  moral  nature  than  to  avoid  performing  it. 
If  it  has  been  given  you  as  duty,  it  is  well  done,  but  be 
very  sure." 

A  smile,  brooding,  and  even  sad,  altered  the  girl's 
face  as  she  reflected  for  a  little. 

"  I  am  very  sure,"  she  said  softly,  but  without 
hesitation. 

"Then,  good  night.  Sleep,  now.  Let  to-morrow 
take  thought  for  the  things  of  itself,  Anna." 


Morning  r 

"Good  night,  father."  The  little  lingering  of  her 
voice  on  the  last  word  gave  to  it  the  force  of  a  term  of 
endearment,  which  it  would  not  have  occurred  to  Anna 
Mallison  at  that  time  to  add. 

A  door  closed  below,  presently,  and  the  house  was 
still. 

The  garret  extended  over  the  entire  house,  and  its 
unlighted  spaces  seemed  to  stretch  indefinitely  on  all 
sides  from  the  little  circle  of  light  shed  by  the  one 
candle.  The  place  was  wholly  open,  save  that  at  the 
front  gable,  below  the  highest  point  in  the  peak  of 
the  roof,  a  partition  of  planed  but  unpainted  boards 
enclosed  a  small  chamber.  The  narrow  door  of  it  stood 
open. 

As  Anna  approached  this  door  she  cast  her  glance  to  a 
far,  dim  corner,  where  in  stiff  order  a  wooden  box  of  mod- 
erate size  stood  upon  a  chest.  She  crossed  to  the  place, 
passed  her  hand  over  the  lid  of  this  box,  satisfied  herself 
that  it  was  firmly  and  evenly  fastened,  and  then  gath- 
ered up  some  nails  and  a  hammer,  which  she  put  awav 
on  the  ledge  formed  by  a  square,  projecting  rafter.  This 
accomplished,  she  came  back  and  entered  the  chamber 
which  was  sparely  enough  furnished,  undressed,  put  out 
her  candle,  and  sat  down  in  the  open  gable  window. 

Even  if  to-morrow  were  left  to  take  thought  for  the 
things  of  itself,  there  were  many  yesterdays  which  she 

wished  to  meet  to-night.     And  for  that  to-morrow, 

she  was  hardly  ready  to  leave  all  thought  of  it  yet,  for 
she  regarded  it  as  the  most  solemn  and  important  crisis 
in  her  eighteen  years  of  life.  On  the  Sabbath,  which  a 
few  hours  would  bring,  she  was  to  be  received  into  the 
village  church  of  which  her  father  was  pastor,  and  this 
event  would  signify  that  all  her  previous  existence,  the 


6  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

time  past  of  her  life,  was  a  closed  and  finished  chapter, 
and  that  henceforth  all  things  were  to  become  new. 
Life  was  to  be  furnished  now  with  new  pleasures,  new 
pains,  new  motives,  new  mental  occupations.  A  some- 
what sterner  and  sadder  life  she  fancied  it,  full  of  self- 
examination,  sacrifice,  and  high  endeavour,  for  she  felt 
it  must  suffice  her  to  have  wrought  her  own  will  in  the 
past,  "  the  will  of  the  flesh,"  as  her  father  and  the  Apostle 
Paul  termed  it ;  a  phrase  which  had  but  a  vague  import 
to  her  own  understanding,  and  yet  exerted  a  powerful 
influence  upon  her  conscience. 

To  her  mind  there  was  an  intimate  connection  be- 
tween that  now  sealed  box  and  "  the  will  of  the  flesh." 

It  was  when  she  was  fifteen  years  old  that  Anna  had 
discovered  one  day  among  the  ranks  of  chests  and  trunks 
which  lined  the  outer  stretches  of  the-garret,  this  small  box 
of  books,  thickly  covered  with  dust.  At  first  she  had  been 
greatly  surprised,  since  books  were  the  things  her  father 
most  earnestly  desired  and  needed,  his  scanty  collection 
being  quite  insufficient  for  his  use,  and  being  helped  out 
by  no  village  library.  Every  book  in  the  house  had 
borne  to  Anna's  imagination  a  potent  dignity  and  value, 
for  each  one  embodied  a  persistent  need,  and  represented 
an  almost  severe  economy  before  its  possession  had  been 
achieved. 

And  here  were  nearly  thirty  respectably  bound  volumes 
packed  away  for  moth  and  dust  alone  to  live  upon  — 
what  could  it  mean  ?  Had  they  been  forgotten  ?  Anna 
had  devoured  their  titles  with  consuming  wonder  and 
curiosity,  and  with  the  ardour  of  the  instinctive  book- 
lover.  Like  Aurora  Leigh,  she  had  "  found  the  secret 
of  a  garret  room." 

There  was  a  volume   of  Ossian,  —  heroic,  sounding 


Morning  7 

words  caught  her  eye  as  she  turned  the  rough,  yellow 
leaves  ;  Landor's  "  Hellenics  and  Idylls  "  ;  a  copy  bound 
in  marred,  brown  leather  of  Pope's  translation  of  the 
"Iliad,"  published,  she  noted,  in  1 806,  almost  fifty  years 
before  she  was  born ;  the  poems  of  Byron,  Shelley, 
Keats,  and  Coleridge, and  of  the  earlier  American  poets; 
and  a  thin  gilded  volume  of  Blake's  "  Songs  of  Inno- 
cence." 

Besides  these  were  worn  volumes  of  Plato,  of  Greek 
and  Latin  poets,  and  German  editions  of  Faust  and 
Nathan  der  Weise.  At  the  bottom  of  the  box  Anna 
found  a  faded  commonplace  book  with  her  father's 
name  inscribed  on  the  first  page,  and  the  date  1840.  It 
contained  translations  of  Greek  poetry  which  she  sup- 
posed to  have  been  made  by  her  father,  although  of  this 
she  was  not  sure.  She  did  not  read  them,  for  she  felt 
that  she  had  no  right  to  explore  anything  so  personal 
without  his  permission.  This  scruple,  however,  did  not 
extend  to  the  books  which  filled  the  box,  although  Anna 
felt  rather  than  understood  that  they  had  not  been  packed 
away  together  thus  by  accident,  or  left  by  forgetfulness. 
She  perceived  that  they  denoted  some  decisive  experience 
in  her  father's  inner  life,  that  spiritual  personality  of  the 
man,  which  possessed  to  the  young  girl's  thought  an 
august  and  even  mysterious  sacredness. 

Whatever  these  books  had  meant  to  him,  and  for  what- 
ever reason  they  had  been  exiled  from  his  meagre  library, 
they  became  to  his  daughter  the  most  brilliant  and  allur- 
ing feature  of  a  somewhat  colourless  girlhood,  the  charm 
of  them  enhanced  by  secrecy  ;  for,  with  the  reticence 
characteristic  of  the  family  life,  Anna  never  alluded  to 
her  discovery.  Neither  did  she  ever  remove  these  liter- 
ary  remains    from   their  seclusion    in    the   garret  ;    this 


8  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

would  have  seemed  an  act  of  violence,  but  around  the 
box  which  held  them  she  formed  a  kind  of  enclosing 
barricade  of  chests  and  old  furniture.  The  little  nook 
thus  formed  she  regarded  as  her  place  of  refuge,  of 
private  and  unguessed  delight.  A  candle  at  night,  and 
rays  of  light  piercing  the  wide  cracks  under  the  eaves  by 
day,  made  reading  easy  to  her  clear  young  eyes,  even  in 
the  dust  and  dusk  of  the  dim  place.  And  so  for  two 
years,  through  biting  cold  and  searing  heat,  Anna  fed  her 
mind  and  heart  on  the  poetry  which  had  ruled  her 
father's  generation,  unknown  and  unsanctioned  by  any 
one.  Then  one  day  came  a  strange  event  ;  she  never 
recalled  it  without  a  sense  of  unshed  tears. 

It  was  late  one  August  afternoon,  and,  her  day's  work 
faithfully  performed,  Anna  had  gone  up  to  her  garret 
room  to  make  her  simple  toilet  for  the  evening  meal. 
There  were  a  few  moments  to  spare,  and,  as  usual,  she 
hastened  to  her  nook,  and  was  soon  deep  in  Prometheus, 
for  Shelley  just  then  controlled  her  imagination.  Her 
father  came  into  the  garret  behind  her,  a  very  unwonted 
thing,  and  Anna  heard  the  sharp,  scraping  sound  as  he 
drew  out  from  the  recesses  where  it  had  stood  for  years, 
a  small,  brown,  hair-covered  trunk,  studded  with  brass 
nails,  forming  the  initials  S.  D.  M.  It  had  been  his  own 
during  his  college  days,  and  had  seen  but  little  service 
since.  One  of  Anna's  brothers  was  to  start  for  college 
in  a  day  or  two,  and  the  old  trunk  was  to  serve  a  second 
generation  in  its  quest  for  learning. 

Startled  by  the  unusual  noise,  Anna  rose  in  her  place, 
and,  seeing  her  father,  spoke  to  him,  whereupon  he 
crossed  the  garret  to  where  she  stood  ;  a  small,  thin  man, 
bent  a  little,  with  a  pale  brown  skin,  prominent  eyes, 
and  a  dome-shaped  head,  the  hair  thin    on   the  crown 


Morning  9 

even  to  baldness,  but  soft  and  silken  and  long  enough 
behind  the  ears  to  show  its  tendency  to  curl. 

"  What  have  you  there,  Anna  ?  "  Samuel  Mallison 
had  asked,  peering  with  short-sighted,  searching  eyes 
between  the  bars  of  a  battered  crib  which  Anna  had 
used  as  a  part  of  her  wall  of  partition. 

"  Poetry,  father,"  she  had  replied,  handing  him  the 
book  with  eager,  innocent  enthusiasm  ;  "  oh,  it  is  very 
beautiful !      I  love  it  so." 

Her  father,  looking  at  the  book,  flushed  strangely, 
and  a  sudden,  indescribable  change  passed  over  his  face. 
Pushing  aside  the  rubbish  which  separated  him  from 
Anna,  he  was  immediately  at  her  side,  and  in  silence  had 
bent  over  the  box.  He  had  drawn  it  nearer  the  light, 
and  seemed  looking  on  the  side  for  some  sign  or  inscrip- 
tion. There  was  a  piercing  eagerness  in  his  eyes. 
Then  Anna  had  noticed  what  had  escaped  her  hitherto, 
the  initials,  S.  D.  M.,  followed  by  the  reference,  Mat- 
thew v.  29,  and  the  date,  1848,  written  in  ink  on  the 
lower  corner,  dim  with  dust  stains  and  faded  with  the 
processes  of  time. 

Still  her  father  had  not  spoken,  but,  sitting  down  on  a 
chest,  he  had  bent  over  the  box,  and  had  drawn  from  it 
one  after  the  other  the  buried  books,  with  a  hand  as 
gentle  as  if  he  were  touching  the  tokens  of  a  dead  love. 
Anna  had  stood  aside,  silent  and  abashed,  a  strange 
tightening  sensation  in  her  throat.  Her  father  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  her.  At  last  he  had  reached  the  old 
commonplace  book  underneath  all.  The  flush  on  his 
face  had  deepened,  and  Anna  had  thought  there  were 
tears  in  his  eyes  as  he  glanced  rapidly  over  its  yellowed 
pages,  with  the  verses  in  fine,  stifF  writing  and  faded  ink. 
Then  he  had  closed  the  book  with  a  long  sigh,  had  laid 


io  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

it  carefully  back  in  its  place,  and  rising,  had  walked  up 
and  down  in  the  low  garret  for  many  minutes  in  some 
evident  agitation. 

A  sense  of  guilt  and  apprehension  had  fallen  upon 
Anna  in  her  perplexity,  but  when,  in  the  end,  he  had 
come  and  stood  beside  her,  there  was  a  great  gentleness 
on  his  face. 

"  And  so  you  love  those  books,  my  child  ?  "  he  had 
asked  her  briefly. 

"  Yes,  father." 

"I  understand.  I  loved  them,  but  I  gave  them  up  — 
twenty  years  ago,  almost.  They  became  a  snare."  He 
had  been,  then,  silent  a  moment,  while  a  peculiar  conflict 
of  thought  was  reflected  in  his  face.  "  Yes,"  he  con- 
tinued, as  if  convinced  of  something  called  in  doubt, 
"they  became  a  snare  —  to  me  —  but  for  you  I  cannot 
decide.  It  may  not  be  for  you  to  drink  of  my  cup. 
Who  knows  ?  "  and  with  that  he  had  turned  and  left  her, 
and  left  the  garret,  the  trunk  forgotten  ;  and  Anna  had 
laid  the  books  back,  soberly  and  with  a  great  heartache, 
almost  as  if  she  were  laying  dust  dear  and  sacred  in  its 
coffin. 

The  matter  had  never  been  alluded  to  again  between 
the  father  and  daughter,  but  Anna  knew  that  she  was 
free  to  read,  and  so  read  on.  And  still  her  unalloyed 
happiness  in  her  hidden  treasure  was  gone.  A  question, 
a  suspicion,  a  disturbing  doubt,  was  now  attached  to  it. 
It  was  not  wrong  to  read  this  poetry,  but  plainly  there 
was  a  more  excellent  way,  a  higher  ground  which  her 
father  had  reached,  and  which,  with  her  inborn  passion 
for  perfection,  she,  too,  must  some  day  attain.  Slowly 
and  silently  this  conviction  matured  within  her. 

And  so  to-night,  on  the  eve  of  her  day  of  supreme 


Morning  1 1 

consecration,  Anna,  in  her  turn,  had  buried  out  of  her 
sight,  as  her  father  had  before  her,  the  poetry  into  which 
she  had  been  pouring  her  young  awakening  life,  silently 
and  secretly,  but  with  a  fervour  which  the  reader  of  many 
books  can  never  know.  They  had  spoken  to  her  in 
mighty  voices,  these  great  spirits,  so  free,  joyous,  and 
mysterious  in  their  power ;  but  they  were  not  the  voice 
of  God,  and  therefore  she  must  listen  to  them  no  more. 
This  had  been  a  tree  of  life  to  her,  but  its  fruit  was  for- 
bidden. The  axe  must  thenceforth  be  laid  unflinchingly 
at  the  root  of  the  tree.  Such  was  the  initial  impulse, 
single,  stern,  and  absolute,  of  Anna's  awakening  religious 
nature. 

Theologians  in  the  sixties  did  not  talk  of  the  imma- 
nence of  God. 


CHAPTER   II 

Children  of  men  !  the  unseen  Power  whose  eye 
Forever  doth  accompany  mankind, 
Hath  looked  on  no  religion  scornfully 
That  man  did  ever  find. 

Which  has  not  taught  weak  wills  how  much  they  can  ? 
Which  has  not  fall'n  on  the  dry  heart  like  rain  ? 
Which  has  not  cried  to  sunk,  self-weary  man  : 
Tbou  must  be  born  again  ! 

—  Matthew  Arnold. 

Anna  Malltson's  working  theory  of  the  human  family 
in  its  moral  and  religious  relations  (and  she  recognized 
no  other  as  of  importance)  was  as  destitute  of  shading 
as  a  carpenter's  house  plan.  Indeed,  her  hypothesis  un- 
consciously bore  a  certain  pictorial  resemblance  to  the 
ground  plan  of  a  colonial  house  —  a  hall  running  through 
the  middle  with  two  rooms  on  each  side  !  There  was, 
straight  through  the  centre  of  her  moral  universe,  a  wide, 
divisive,  neutral  passage  in  which  dwelt  uneasily  all  peo- 
ple who  had  not  been  regenerated,  but  who  had  not  re- 
jected salvation  formally  and  forever.  Here  were  such 
heathen  and  young  children,  and  such  thoughtless  and 
unhardened  impenitent  as  might  yet  listen  to  the  divine 
call.  At  the  right  of  this  central  hall,  following  Anna's 
scheme  of  the  race,  were  two  wide  rooms :  the  first  bright 
with  a  subdued  and  varied  light ;  the  second,  opening 
beyond  the  first,  overflowing  with  undimmed  and  celes- 
tial radiance.  The  first  was  the  Church,  the  place  of 
saints  on   earth,  the  second  was  heaven,  easily  reached 


M 


orning  13 


from  the  first.  But  the  entrance  to  the  first  room  from 
the  central  space  was  obscure,  difficult,  and  mysterious, 
and  few  were  they  who  found  it. 

At  the  left  of  the  great  hall  were  likewise  two  vast 
connecting  chambers.  A  wide  door  stood  ever  open 
into  the  first,  through  which  a  throng  continually  passed. 
Here  were  dimness  and  dread,  lighted  only  by  false  and 
baleful  gleams  ;  and  in  the  room  beyond,  the  blackness 
of  darkness,  and  that  forever. 

This  first  room  was  the  abode  of  those  who  deliber- 
ately chose  the  world  and  turned  away  from  God,  whose 
fitting  end  was  in  the  awful  gloom  of  that  place  of  tor- 
ment and  wailing  beyond. 

Above  the  right-hand  division,  high  and  lifted  up, 
dwelt  in  unthinkable  glory  the  God  of  her  fathers,  holy, 
but  to  her  subconscious  sense,  ineffective,  else  why 
were  earthquakes,  murders,  prisons,  insanities  ?  and  why, 
indeed,  those  populous  chambers  on  the  left  ? 

Over  them  presided  a  rapid,  hurtling  Spirit,  always 
engaged  in  her  imagination  in  falling  like  lightning  from 
heaven.  He  was  Miltonic  necessarily,  but  also  much 
like  one  of  Ossian's  heroes,  and,  on  the  whole,  a  more 
imposing  force  than  the  Creator  whose  power  he  seemed 
so  successfully  to  have  usurped. 

In  fine,  Anna  believed  in  two  gods,  an  infinite  spirit 
of  good,  and  an  infinite  spirit  of  evil,  although  she  would 
have  called  herself  strictly  monotheistic. 

The  neutral  space  between  the  realms  of  the  Good 
and  Evil  was  the  battleground  of  these  two  mighty  spir- 
its. Here  prophets,  apostles,  and  preachers  were  calling 
loudly  and  untiringly  upon  all  men  to  repent,  and  to 
find  the  entrance  to  the  company  of  the  redeemed. 
From  time  to  time  some   swift  and  valorous  spirit  of 


14  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

man  or  angel  would  even  make  excursion  into  the  dim 
outer  room  on  the  left,  and  bring  thence  a  scorched  and 
spotted  soul,  saved,  but  so  as  by  fire.  But  such  events 
were  rare  and  not  to  be  presumed  upon  or  expected. 

It  was  all  perfectly  clear  to  Anna,  the  classification 
and  grouping  precise,  exact,  and  satisfactory.  Black 
was  very  black;  and  white,  very  white.  She  had  herself 
until  very  recently  belonged  in  the  neutral  hall,  but  she 
now  believed  herself  to  be  "  experiencing  religion,"  a 
fine  old  phrase,  which  was  in  effect  to  be  pressing  suc- 
cessfully through  that  obscure  opening  which  led  into 
the  outer  court  of  heaven. 

But  just  here  there  was  a  weakness  in  the  system. 
Theologians  and  preachers  like  her  father  boldly  declared 
the  contrary,  and  asserted  that  the  processes  of  entering 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  were  as  marked  and  unmistak- 
able  as  the  great  general  divisions  of  saints  and  sinners. 
The  conversion  of  Saul  of  Tarsus  was  always  depicted 
as  norm  and  type.  To  be  sure,  all  the  processes  were 
not  in  each  case  marked  by  equal  distinctness,  but  the 
logical  order  was  the  same.  In  the  first  stage  of  the 
progress  the  sinner  was  said  to  be  "  under  conviction  " 
or  "  experiencing  a  sense  of  sin  "  ;  and  the  more  bitter 
and  overwhelming  was  this  first  phase,  the  better  was 
the  diagnosis  from  the  professional  point  of  view.  At 
this  point  the  penitent  was  to  realize  that,  whatever  his 
former  life  had  been,  even  if  a  life  of  prayer  and  unself- 
ish devotion,  it  had  been  wholly  displeasing  to  God,  and 
that,  as  tending  to  self-righteousness,  such  a  life  was 
peculiarly  dangerous.  By  nature,  there  could  not  be  in 
the  human  character  any  real  moral  excellence,  or  what 
was  more  technically  known  as  "evangelical  virtue." 

All  this  Samuel  Mallison  had  recently  set  forth  in  a 


Morning  15 

series  of  sermons  on  "  Human  Depravity  ;  its  Degree, 
its  Extent,  its  Derivation,  and  its  Punishment,"  which 
had  been  considered  of  extraordinary  value  and  merit. 

But  it  was  just  here  that  his  daughter,  for  all  the 
logic  and  learning  to  which  she  was  privileged  to  listen, 
stumbled  and  stood  still.  For  weeks  her  spiritual  de- 
velopment appeared  to  be  arrested.  She  was  silent, 
uncommunicative,  and  disappointing  to  all  the  older 
members  and  office-bearers   in  her  father's  church. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Anna  ?  "  was  the  frequent 
question  put  to  Mrs.  Mallison  in  the  parish.  "  Why 
don't  she  come  out  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  is  under  conviction  all  the  time,"  would  be 
the  reply,  with  a  somewhat  decided  shake  of  the  head. 
"  We  let  her  alone  pretty  much,  Mr.  Mallison  and  I. 
It  isn't  best  to  say  too  much,  you  know,  when  anybody 
has  reached  that  point.  We  can  see  that  conscience  is 
Working  with  her." 

The  questioner  would  depart  with  the  belief  that  Anna's 
conviction  was  of  an  unusually  profound  and  interest- 
ing nature,  like  a  disease  with  a  complication ;  but  if 
they  had  asked  Anna  herself,  she  might  have  told  them 
that  it  was  from  the  absence  of  this  conviction,  rather 
than  from  its  intensity,  that  she  was  suffering.  She  was 
too  honest  to  assume  a  virtue,  or  even  a  vice,  if  she  had 
it  not,  and  seek  it  as  she  would,  a  poignant  sense  of  sin 
did  not  visit  her.  She  had  cast  about  her,  and  searched 
her  own  heart  and  life  in  a  distinct  embarrassment  at 
finding  so  few  clearly  defined  and  indubitable  sins  of 
which  to  plead  guilty  ;  she  had  even  secretly  reproached 
her  parents  in  her  heart  for  having  insisted  upon  an 
almost  faultless  standard  of  daily  living,  since  conform- 
ity to  their  will  seemed  to  be  in  itself  a  snare,  and  to 


1 6  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

place  her  at  a  distinct  disadvantage  now  as  compared 
with  the  flagrant  sinner.  Why  had  they  taught  her  to 
pray,  since  she  was  now  told  that  the  prayers  of  the 
unregenerate  were  displeasing  to  God  ? 

She  used  to  sit  during  the  Sunday  morning  service 
and  look  at  the  neighbours  in  their  pews  around  her,  at 
their  children  and  grandchildren,  and  at  the  members  of 
her  own  family,  seeking  to  find  a  person  whom  she  was 
conscious  of  having  wronged,  or  toward  whom  she  cher- 
ished a  feeling  of  enmity  or  envy.  The  only  result  of 
this  species  of  self-examination  had  been  to  bring  to  her 
remembrance  a  childish,  half-forgotten  grudge  against  a 
girl  with  fair  curls,  Malvina  Loveland  by  name,  who  had 
once  ridiculed  her  at  school,  for  wearing  one  of  Lucia's 
dresses  made  over.  Anna  drew  this  dim  and  fading  fault 
remorselessly  up  to  the  light,  and  formally  and  forever 
forgave  the  unconscious  "  Mally."  But  the  longing  for 
a  deep  experience  of  the  "  exceeding  sinfulness  of  sin  " 
remained  unsatisfied.  Like  many  another  sincere  and 
seeking  soul  of  that  day,  she  yearned  in  vain  to  fill  out 
in  its  rigid  precision  of  sequence  that  spiritual  programme 
which  the  theologians  prescribed. 

Her  father  gave  her  free  access  to  the  precious,  if  nar- 
row, resources  of  his  library,  and  she  read  the  Edwards, 
both  elder  and  younger,  the  elder  Dwight,  Bunyan,  Bax- 
ter, and  the  rest,  in  place  of  her  dear  pagans  whose  end 
she  now  clearly  foresaw.  She  read  of  the  "  depraved 
moral  conduct  of  every  infant  who  lives  so  long  as  to 
be  capable  of  moral  action  "  ;  she  read  that  "  the  heart 
of  Man,  after  all  abatements  are  made  for  certain  inno- 
cent and  amiable  characteristics,  is  set  to  do  evil  in  a 
most  affecting  and  dreadful  manner " ;  and  that  "  the 
darling    and    customary    pleasures    of   men    furnish    an 


Morning  17 

advantageous    proof   of   the    extreme   depravity    of   our 
nature." 

"  Was  I  a  very  wicked  little  child  ?  "  she  asked  her 
mother  one  day. 

"  Wicked  !  "  cried  her  mother,  artlessly,  resenting 
the  thought.  "You  were  like  a  little  angel,  Benigna, 
even  from  the  very  first.  So  was  it  that  I  gave  you  my 
sainted  mother's  name.  Even  your  looks  were  all  love; 
all  saw  it,  and  strangers  too.  You  a  bad  child,  indeed 
who  never  gave  your  mother  a  harsh  word  or  a  heart- 
ache since  you  were  born  !  " 

Anna  Benigna,  for  so  her  mother  called  her,  bent  anc 
kissed  her  mother,  a  rare  caress  in  that  family. 

"  I  am  glad  I  pleased  you,"  she  whispered.  Thert 
were  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  as  she  walked  without  furthei 
word  from  the  room,  her  mother  perceived  the  signifi- 
cance of  question  and  reply,  and  pondered  long. 

Then  suddenly,  as  ice  breaks  up  in  the  spring,  and 
the  freshet  bears  down  everything  before  it,  a  moment 
of  crisis  and  perception  came,  one  of  those  moments 
which,  albeit  varying  with  each  human  experience, 
remains  in  each  supreme. 

Under  all  her  outward  conformity  to  law  and  love, 
Anna  realized  now  that  there  had  lain  for  years  a  deep, 
half-conscious  resentment  toward  the  Creator,  a  cold  dis- 
like of  God.  How  could  he  look  upon  her  with  approval 
while  such  a  disposition  remained  in  her  heart  ?  She 
had  loved  the  human ;    she  had   not  loved    the    divine. 

A  sense  of  the  absolute  and  eternal  Good  from  which 
she  was  alienated,  to  which  she  was  antagonistic,  smote 
her  with  force.  She  now  seemed  to  herself  in  the  pres- 
ence of  God  as  a  speck  of  dust  against  a  dazzling 
mountain  of  snow  —  incalculably  small,  hatefully  im- 
c 


1 8  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

pure.  A  passion  of  contrition  and  surrender  mastered 
her ;  vague  regenerating  fires  tried  her  soul ;  and  then 
came  an  exhaustion  of  spirit,  as  of  a  child  whom  its 
Father  has  chastened,  and  who  is  reconciled  and  at 
peace.  This  succession  of  emotions  she  was  able  to 
recall  distinctly  as  long  as  she  lived. 

This  had  been  a  month  ago.  Anna  had  recounted 
these  spiritual  exercises  to  her  father,  and  he  had  told  her 
that  they  denoted  conversion,  and  advised  her  presenting 
herself  to  the  church  for  admission.  This  she  had 
done,  but  when  he  asked  her,  further,  to  what  cause,  if 
any,  she  ascribed  this  past  sense  of  enmity  against  God, 
she  had  been  silent. 

However,  her  father  was  fully  satisfied.  Like  a 
physician  with  a  well-declared  fever  of  a  certain  type, 
he  felt  it  to  be  a  clear  case.  Considering  his  child's 
blameless  innocence  of  life,  it  was  an  unexpectedly  satis- 
factory one  from  the  theologian's  point  of  view. 

As  she  sat  now  in  the  warm  gloom  of  the  June  night, 
with  the  dark  trees  murmuring  softly  under  the  wind, 
and  the  sky  with  many  stars  bending  near,  only  the 
gable  jutting  above  her  head  to  keep  its  splendours  off", 
Anna  travelled  back  in  thought  to  her  childish  days  and 
found  there  the  answer  to  her  father's  question. 


CHAPTER   III 

Nay,  but  I  think  the  whisper  crept 

Like  growth  through  childhood.      Work  and  play, 

Things  common  to  the  course  of  day, 

Awed  thee  with  meanings  unfulfuTd  ; 

And  all  through  girlhood,  something  still'd 

Thy  senses  like  the  birth  of  light, 

When  thou  hast  trimmed  thy  lamp  at  night 

Or  washed  thy  garments  in  the  stream. 

—  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 

Until  her  twelfth  year  Anna  had  not  encountered  the 
severities  of  Calvinistic  theology,  Samuel  Mallison  having 
intrusted  the  spiritual  guidance  of  his  children,  during 
their  earlier  years,  to  their  mother.  Anna  was  the 
youngest  child.  Mrs.  Mallison  was  of  a  German  Mora- 
vian family  who,  coming  from  Pennsylvania,  had  settled 
on  the  eastern  boundary  of  New  York  early  in  the  cen- 
tury. She  possessed  the  serene  and  trustful  temperament 
of  her  people.  The  subtleties  of  her  husband's  religious 
system  were  beyond  her  simple  ken ;  she  loved  to  sing 
the  hymns  of  Zinzendorf,  as  she  sewed  and  spun  and 
ordered  her  household  in  true  German  Hausfraulichkeit, 
a  sincere,  devout,  affectionate  soul  who  had  found  the 
tone  of  the  frigid  little  north  New  England  community 
more  chilling  than  she  dared  to  own. 

From  her  Anna  inherited  her  warm  impulses,  her 
abounding  delight  in  nature,  her  susceptibility  to  the 
simplest  impressions  of  sweet  and  common  things. 
Gulielma  Mallison  understood  the  child  when  she 
came    running   to    her  one   early   spring    morning   from 

x9 


20  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

the  parsonage  garden,  where  the  dark  brown  earth  was 
freshly  upturned  and  young  green  things  were  springing,- 
and   had   tears   in    her   eyes,  veiling  wonder,  and  a  shy 
thrill   of  joy   in   all   her    small    birdlike   frame,  and   had 
asked,  her  hands  clasped  upon  her  breast :  — 

"  Why  am  I  so  happy,  mother,  that  I  can't  bear  it  ? 
Why  does  something  ache  so  here  ?  " 

"  It  is  because  thou  art  in  God's  beautiful  world,  little 
Benigna,"  the  mother  had  said,  "and  thou  art  God's 
child.  He  is  near  thee,  and  thy  heart  yearns  to  him. 
Be  glad  in  God." 

In  his  study,  through  the  open  door,  Samuel  Mallison 
heard  these  words,  and,  whatever  his  perplexity  as  to 
their  doctrinal  inconsistency,  he  did  not  gainsay  them. 
From  his  point  of  view  at  this  time  little  Anna  was 
entirely  out  of  relation  to  God  and  out  of  harmony  with 
his  being,  and  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  her  to 
please  him.  But  just  then  an  old  question,  which  would 
not  always  down,  had  forced  its  way  to  his  mind  — 
What  if  there  were  a  wrong  link  somewhere  in  the  logic  ? 
What  if  the  love  of  God  were  something  greater  than 
the  schoolmen  guessed  ? 

But  on  a  certain  winter  night  Anna's  childhood  died, 
and  the  battle  of  her  life  began. 

Well  she  remembered  every  physical  sensation  even, 
accompanying  that  experience. 

It  had  been  a  snowy  Saturday  night,  and  she  had  come 
in  from  the  warm  kitchen  where,  in  a  round  washing- 
day  tub,  drawn  close  to  the  hot  stove,  she  had  taken  a 
merry,  splashing  bath,  after  the  regular  order  of  exercises 
for  Saturday  night  at  the  parsonage.  Her  older  sister, 
Lucia,  had  presided  over  the  function,  and  when  it  was 
accomplished   she   had   been   closely   wrapped    in   a  pale 


Morning  21 

straw-hued,  homespun  flannel  sheet,  over  her  nightclothes, 
preparatory  to  facing  the  rigours  of  the  bitterly  cold  hall 
and  stairs,  and  the  little  bedroom  above. 

So  she  had  trailed  into  the  living-room,  where  the 
boys  and  her  parents  were  gathered  around  a  large  table. 
The  room  was  not  very  brightly  lighted  by  the  single  oil 
lamp,  but  a  great  fire  crackled  loudly  in  the  stove,  and 
the  rattle  of  the  hard  snowflakes  on  the  window  panes 
and  the  whistling  of  the  wind  outside  gave  keen  empha- 
sis to  the  sense  of  cheerful  safety  and  comfort. 

Warm  and  languid  from  the  heat  of  her  bath,  Anna 
had  sat  down  on  a  low  seat  and  dropped  her  head  on  her 
mother's  knees,  feeling  an  indescribable  sensation  of 
happy  lassitude  and  physical  well-being.  She  recalled 
how  interested  she  had  been  in  the  shrivelled  whiteness 
of  her  own  long,  little  fingers,  and  how  soft  and  woolly 
that  dear  old  blanket  had  felt ;  it  was  on  her  bed  now, 
with  her  mother's  maiden  name  worked  in  cross-stitch 
jn  one  corner,  in  pale  pink  crewel. 

They  had  been  waiting  for  her,  to  proceed  with  the 
evening  devotions,  and  her  father  had  at  once  begun  to 
read  a  part  of  a  sermon  from  one  of  the  standard  divines 
who,  though  somewhat  out  of  fashion  in  the  centres  of 
progressive  thought,  were  still  held  infallible  in  these 
remoter  regions. 

The  subject  was  "  The  Benevolence  of  God  in  Inflict- 
ing Punishment,"  from  a  work  entitled  «  The  Effects  of 
the  Fall." 

Anna  did  not  listen  very  closely  for  a  time,  but  pres- 
ently her  attention  was  caught  and  held.  The  writer 
was  seeking  to  prove  that  "  the  damnation  of  a  large 
part  of  the  human  race  directly  subserved  the  general 
happiness  of  mankind  and  the  glory  of  God."     That 


ii  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

even  if  he  had  saved  none  of  the  sons  of  men,  but  "  had 
left  them  to  the  endless  torment  they  had  so  justly  de- 
served," and  "had  glorified  himself  in  their  eternal  ruin, 
they  would  have  had  no  cause  to  complain."  That  the 
best  of  what  were  illusively  known  as  "  good  works," 
were  "  no  more  than  splendid  sins."  That  no  doubt, 
if  any  heathen  could  be  found  who  was  truly  virtuous 
and  holy,  who  loved  God  in  the  strictly  evangelical 
sense,  as  infinitely  great,  wise,  and  holy,  and  who  kept  all 
his  perfect  law  without  infraction,  such  heathen  might 
be  saved.  But  as  there  was  no  evidence  that  any  such 
heathen  ever  had  existed,  or  ever  could  exist,  there  was 
no  reason  to  believe  that  any  had  been  saved.  As  the 
heathen  still  formed  a  vast  proportion  of  the  population 
of  the  globe,  and  as  only  a  small  fraction  of  those  nations 
commonly  known  as  Christian  had  actually  and  experi- 
mentally come  under  the  law  of  grace,  the  only  conclu- 
sion possible  was,  that  a  vast  proportion  of  the  human 
family  throughout  all  ages  and  down  to  the  present  time 
"  were  serving  the  purposes  of  God's  infinite  wisdom 
and  benevolence  in  their  creation  in  endless  misery  or 
torment." 

The  triumphant  logic  of  the  old  divine,  which  Mrs. 
Mallison  secretly  found  discomfiting  but  accepted  calmly 
enough  considering  its  terrific  import,  and  which  her 
husband  read  with  the  sad  and  solemn  pathos  of  one  to 
whom  it  was  a  mournful  verity,  had  a  curious  effect 
upon  little  Anna.  For  the  first  time  the  real  meaning 
of  familiar  words  like  these  smote  full  and  sharp  upon 
her  mind,  and  in  the  physical  lassitude  of  the  moment 
acted  like  a  bodily  injury  upon  her.  She  grew  whiter 
and  whiter,  and  she  touched  and  grasped  the  soft  blanket 
about  her  with  powerless  fingers,  to  convince    herself 


Morning  23 

that  she  could  feel  and  find  what  was  familiar,  faintness 
being  an  absolutely  unknown  sensation. 

Suddenly,  with  an  imperious  impulse,  and  a  singular 
effect  of  childish  courage  which  dared  to  do  an  unheard- 
of  thing,  she  rose  and  said  with  perfect  apparent  com- 
posure, breaking  in  upon  the  reading:  — 

"  I  am  too  tired  to  stay  here  any  longer,  I  am  going 
upstairs  now,"  and  so  left  the  room.  Her  mother  had 
watched  the  slight  figure  in  its  close  drapery  with  anxious 
eyes  until  the  door  closed  upon  her,  but  had  not  thought 
of  following.  This  reading  was  a  solemn  function  not 
to  be  lightly  interrupted. 

Upstairs,  Anna  had  betaken  herself  hastily  to  bed,  and 
lay  there,  motionless,  somewhat  alarmed  at  her  own  revo- 
lutionary action,  and  with  little  to  say  when  questioned 
by  her  mother  presently. 

But  when  the  house  was  still,  and  the  night  advancing 
to  its  mid  depth  of  darkness,  the  child,  still  lying  with 
wide,  wakeful  eyes,  cried  silently  with  a  piteous  conscious- 
ness of  desolation  and  sorrow.  A  sense  of  the  bitter- 
ness of  a  world  where  millions  of  helpless  human  spirits 
were  shut  up  to  endless  agony  had  overwhelmed  her,  and 
a  spirit  of  rebellion  against  God  who  willed  it  so  for  his 
own  glory  had  taken  intense  possession  of  her  thought. 

In  the  passion  of  her  childish  resentment  and  grief 
and  worn  by  the  unwonted  wakefulness,  her  breath  came 
in  long,  quivering  sobs  which  were  heard  in  the  next 
room,  and  brought  her  father  to  her  side. 

She  could  answer  nothing  to  his  questions,  but  he 
found  her  hands  cold,  and  her  pulse  weak  and  rapid. 

"  You  did  not  eat  your  supper  to-night,  little  Anna," 
he  said  gently,  remembering  her  faint  appetite  for  the 
frugal  fare  of  the  parsonage  table. 


24  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

Anna  only  sobbed  more  convulsively.  She  had  ex- 
pected severity  and  blame,  feeling  verily  guilty  in  spirit. 

Samuel  Mallison  said  nothing  more,  but  Anna,  wonder- 
ing, heard  him  go  downstairs,  heard  doors  open  and 
shut,  and  then  silence  fell  again.  Ten  minutes  later  her 
father  stood  again  by  the  bedside  in  the  icy  chill  of  the 
winter  midnight  in  the  unwarmed  chamber,  and  he  had 
brought  a  bowl  of  broth,  hot  and  smoking,  bread,  too, 
and,  most  unwonted  pampering,  a  piece  of  the  rare  pound- 
cake, kept  for  company  and  never  given  to  children 
except  on   high  holidays. 

Neither  of  them  spoke,  but  Samuel  Mallison,  for  all 
the  cold,  sat  on  the  bed's  edge  while  Anna  ate  and 
drank,  drawing  her  frail  little  body  to  rest  against  his 
own. 

The  broth  was  salted  for  Anna  by  her  tears,  and  the 
long-drawn  sobs,  coming  at  intervals,  half  choked  her  as 
she  ate,  but  she  was  comforted  at  last  and  fortified  against 
the  woe  of  the  world,  and  she  pressed  her  cheek  against 
tier  father's  arm  with  a  sense  of  the  infinite  sweetness  of 
fatherhood  warm  at  her  heart.  As  she  finished  the  last 
crumb  of  cake,  she  thought :  — 

u  If  only  God  had  been  kind  like  my  father!  I  was 
naughty,  and  that  only  makes  him  good  to  me  and  piti- 
ful." But  she  said  nothing,  only  looked  with  a  world 
of  wondering  gratefulness  in  her  large  innocent  eyes  up 
into  her  father's  face,  finding  some  perplexity  that  cake 
and  broth  should  reconcile  her  to  the  everlasting  torment 
of  the  majority  of  mankind,  but  wisely  concluding  to 
make  the  best  of  it  since  such  seemed  to  be  the  effect, 
and,  as  it  was  now  undoubtedly  high  time,  to  go  to  sleep. 

Finding  her  bright  and  well  next  morning,  the  Malli- 
sons,  father  and  mother,  had  thought  little  more  of  that 


Morning  25 

Saturday  night  revolt,  which  they,  indeed,  had  not  known 
as  such  ;  but,  as  she  looked  back  over  her  years  to-night, 
in  her  gable  window,  Anna  perceived  that  from  that  time 
there  had  always  been  in  the  secret  place  of  her  heart  a 
sense  of  enmity  against  a  God  who  was  not  kind  like  her 
father.  To-night  she  knew  herself,  at  last,  reconciled  ; 
faith  had  triumphed  and  declared  that  even  the  darkest 
decree  of  God's  great  will  must  be  right,  since  he  was 
the  absolutely  Good.  But  her  heart  yearned  with  mighty 
yearning  for  the  subjects  of  his  just  wrath,  and  as  she 
knelt  in  the  darkness  and  silence  she  gave  herself  with 
simple,  unreserved  sincerity  to  the  service  of  the  lost 
among  men. 

Rising  from  her  knees,  Anna  felt  a  strange  glow  and 
exaltation  of  spirit.  In  her  own  personal  life  sin  had 
been  met  and  vanquished.  Tremendous  apostolic  asser- 
tions buoyed  her  soul  upward  like  strong  wings:  "free 
from  the  law  of  sin  and  of  death,"  "  passed  from  death 
unto  life,"  "  All  things  are  yours,  and  ye  are  Christ's, 
and  Christ  is  God's."  Thus  she  felt  her  finite  linked  to 
the  infinite.  Her  spirit  was  suffused  with  thrilling  and 
unspeakable  joy ;  God  was  closer  than  breathing  and 
nearer  than  hands  and  feet. 

But,  as  she  stood  rapt  and  absorbed,  there  came  up 
through  the  hush  of  the  night  from  the  dim  street  below 
a  strange  sound,  and  she  was  caught  back  by  it,  and 
listened  painfully.     It  was  a  little  child  crying  piteously. 

Peering  down  through  the  clustering  branches,  below 
her  window,  Anna  could  discern  by  the  dim  light  of  the 
stars  the  shape  of  a  woman,  forlorn  and  spiritless,  pass- 
ing silently  along  the  shadowed  way.  Behind  her  fol- 
lowed the  crying  child,  with  weary  little  feet  stumbling 
at  every  stone.     The  woman  carried  something  in  her 


16  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

arms,  hidden  by  an  apron  ;  she  turned  and  looked  at  the 
child,  and  shook  her  head,  but  did  not  speak. 

This  woman,  who  moved  abroad  only  at  night,  was 
the  village  outcast,  and  the  child  was  her  child,  born  in 
sin. 

Vague  and  uncomprehended  to  Anna's  mind  was  the 
abyss  into  which  this  woman  had  fallen,  but  she  felt  it 
to  be  black  and  bottomless,  and  to  place  an  everlasting 
separation  between  her  and  the  good.  She  drew  back 
from  the  window,  a  sharp  pain,  made  of  pity  and  horror, 
at  her  heart,  sin  embodied  thus  confronting  her.  She 
felt  as  Sir  Launfal  felt  when  he  saw  the  leper. 

Lying  down  to  rest  at  last,  Anna  slept,  in  spite  of 
spiritual  ecstasies  and  sufferings,  the  sound  sleep  of  a 
healthy  girl  who  is  fortunate  enough  to  forget  the  ulti- 
mate destinies  of  human  souls,  her  own  with  the  rest, 
for  certain  favoured  hours. 

It  was  long  before  her  sleep  was  disturbed  by  dreams, 
but  an  hour  before  sunrise  she  awoke  with  a  pervading 
sense  of  exquisite  happiness  brought  over  with  her  from 
a  dream  just  dreamed.  It  was  a  still  dream  of  seeing, 
not  of  doing.  She  had  seen  the  form  of  a  man  of 
heroic  aspect,  old  rather  than  young,  with  a  grey  head, 
leonine  and  majestic,  strong  stern  features,  a  glance 
mild  and  yet  searching  and  subduing;  a  man  imperial 
and  lofty,  and  above  his  fellows,  but  whether  as  king 
or  saint  or  soldier  she  could  not  guess.  But  here  was 
made  visible  a  power,  a  freedom,  and  a  greatness  for 
which  her  own  nature,  she  felt  in  a  swift  flash  of  self- 
revelation,  passionately  cried  out,  which  it  had  nowhere 
found,  and  to  which  it  bowed  in  a  curious  delight 
hitherto  unknown.  This  only  happened  :  this  mysteri- 
ous personality,  more  than  human,  she  thought,  if  less 


Morning  27 

than  divine,  had  looked  kindly  upon  her,  in  her  weak, 
childish  abasement,  and  had  shed  into  her  eyes,  and  so 
into  her  heart,  the  impossible,  inexplicable  happiness  with 
which  she  awoke.  She  did  not  sleep  again.  This  wak- 
ing consciousness  enamoured  her. 

What  did  it  mean  ?  Anna  asked  herself  all  day.  Was 
it  a  dream  sent  from  God  at  this  solemn  hour  of  dedica- 
tion ?  If  so,  what  did  it  prefigure  ?  Even  at  the  sacra- 
mental feast,  her  first  communion,  that  majestic  head, 
with  the  controlling  sweetness  of  the  eyes  upon  her, 
came  before  her  vision,  and  made  her  heart  beat  fast. 


CHAPTER   IV 

The  fiend  that  man  harries 
Is  love  of  the  Best. 

—  The  Spbynx,  R.  W.  Emirson. 

Malvina  Loveland,  the  girl  whom  Anna  had  found 
solace  in  forgiving  for  her  childish  offence,  had  "  come 
out,"  as  Haran  people  said,  at  the  same  time  with 
Anna. 

This  fact,  and  the  compunction  in  Anna's  heart  tow- 
ard her  early  foe,  had  drawn  the  two  girls  together, 
and  they  became  friends.  They  talked  of  the  interests 
of  the  cause  of  religion,  and  read  biographies  together, 
or  rather,  Anna  read  aloud  while  her  friend  diligently 
produced  lace  work  with  a  small  shuttle,  or  hemstitched 
linen  ruffles  ;  but  both  cared  less  for  these  several  occu- 
pations than  for  the  sense  of  mingling  their  young, 
unfolding  perceptions. 

Anna  had  need  of  a  friend ;  Lucia,  her  sister,  was 
many  years  older,  and  had  long  ago  married  a  farmer, 
and  departed  deeper  into  the  hills,  where  she  worked 
with  the  immoderate  industry  of  New  England  women, 
bore  many  children,  and  lived  a  life  into  which  Anna 
did  not  enter  deeply.  The  Mallison  boys  were  away 
from  home,  studying  and  working,  and  the  parsonage 
was  a  silent  place.  Anna  adored  her  father  with  the 
restrained  ardour  of  her  kind,  and  loved  her  mother  with 
a  great  tenderness,  but  she  was  actively  intimate  with 
neither,  and  thus  greatly  alone. 

Mally  was  noticeably  pretty,  and  Anna  thought  her 
28 


Morning  29 

beauty  angelic.  She  was  capable,  clever,  quick,  and 
impulsive,  one  of  the  women  who  can  do  anything  they 
see  done,  strongly  imitative  and  impressionable.  She 
developed  rapidly,  while  Anna  matured  slowly.  Anna 
had  nobleness,  Mally  had  facility.  Anna,  beside  Mally, 
looked  uncomfortably  tall,  with  her  angular  thinness  and 
her  dark,  grave  face.  She  had  masses  of  lustreless  brown 
hair,  a  clear  hrune  skin  like  her  father,  and,  like  him, 
singularly  fine  hands.  Her  eyes  were  her  mother's, 
and  her  only  beauty,  —  golden  brown,  and  of  limpid 
clearness. 

To  both  these  girls  their  religion  was  a  system  of 
prohibition  and  of  an  abnormal  development  of  con- 
science. The  negative,  net  the  positive,  side  was  up- 
permost to  them.  "  Thou  shalt  not  "  was  written  over 
every  device  and  desire  which  did  not  minister  directly 
to  the  furtherance  of  the  local  conception  of  religion. 
Both  were  eager  to  grasp  the  positive  side,  to  convert 
the  world,  to  see  Satan  chained,  and  themselves  to  con- 
tribute to  this  desirable  consummation  ;  but  they  were 
doubtful  how  to  begin.  Both  were  ardent  controversial- 
ists after  the  manner  of  their  day,  and  Anna  read  sys- 
tematic theology  with  her  father  with  extraordinary 
relish. 

They  waited  and  wondered,  each  longing  for  her  des- 
tiny to  disclose  itself  decisively.  But  with  Anna  a  hid- 
den life  budded  beneath  the  surface,  unknown  even  to 
Mally.  The  romantic  and  poetic  impulses  of  her  na- 
ture, no  longer  directly  nourished  by  the  poets  whom 
she  had  put  away  from  her  by  force,  stirred  in  her  heart, 
and  fed  themselves,  in  silence,  on  the  life  of  nature,  and 
on  the  delicate,  evanescent  imaginings  of  her  awakening 
womanhood. 


3<d  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

Below  the  surface  of  her  conscious  thoughts  a  strange 
inarticulate  passion  for  power  and  freedom  beat  and 
throbbed,  and  would  not  be  stilled,  despite  her  quiet, 
conscientious  conformity  to  the  narrow  conditions  of  the 
world  about  her.  She  did  not  know  what  freedom  was, 
but  she  felt  that  she  was  not  free  ;  neither  did  she  clearly 
know  what  the  power  meant  for  which  she  longed,  but 
she  felt  the  absence  of  it  in  every  one  she  had  ever  met. 
It  was  mysterious,  indefinable  —  once  only  had  she  en- 
countered it,  and  that  was  in  a  dream. 

Thus  a  nature  simple  and  single,  with  all  its  forces 
apparently  bent  one  way,  and  with  few  avenues,  or  none, 
by  which  to  import  conflicting  influences,  was,  in  fact, 
already  incipiently  subject  to  the  complexities  of  instinct, 
of  motive,  and  desire,  which  weave  the  bewildering  net- 
work of  human  experience. 

When  Anna  was  twenty,  an  event  occurred  of  much 
importance  in  its  bearing  on  her  life.  Under  the  direc- 
tion of  an  old  friend  of  Samuel  Mallison,  the  Rev. 
Dr.  Durham  of  Boston,  a  general  secretary  for  Foreign 
Missions,  a  series  of  meetings  was  held  in  Haran  for  the 
promotion  of  an  interest  in  this  cause.  Dr.  Durham 
was  entertained,  during  the  time  of  the  convention,  at 
the  parsonage  ;  he  was  a  genial  and  kindly  man,  and  be- 
came in  his  way  an  especial  friend  of  Anna,  in  whom 
he  manifested  a  marked  interest. 

From  the  country  round  about,  during  the  week,  men 
and  women  thronged  to  Haran ;  and  at  an  evening  meet- 
ing to  be  addressed  by  a  woman  who  had  been  a  mis- 
sionary in  India,  the  white  meeting-house  was  filled. 
Many  in  the  congregation  had  never  seen  a  missionary  ; 
many  more  had  never  heard  a  woman  speak  in  public. 
Curiosity  ran  high. 


Morning  31 

The  speaker  was  a  little  sallow  woman,  in  a  plain  and 
unbecoming  grey  gown,  who  stepped  timidly  to  the  edge 
of  the  platform,  laying  a  small  hand  which  trembled  visi- 
bly on  the  cold  mahogany  pulpit,  as  if  to  conciliate  it 
for  her  intrusion  and  to  crave  its  support. 

She  spoke  in  a  shrill  crescendo,  without  the  graces  or 
arts  of  a  skilled  speaker,  and  she  made  no  appeal  to  the 
emotions  of  the  hearers.  It  was  rather  a  dry  and  unim- 
aginative account  of  the  work  done  at  an  obscure  moun- 
tain station,  with  statistics  of  no  great  impressiveness, 
and  careful  attention  to  accuracy  of  detail.  But  she 
had  the  advantage  of  sowing  her  seed  on  virgin  soil.  It 
was  not  important  at  that  day  and  to  those  isolated  and 
simple-minded  people  that  the  missionary  should  speak 
with  enticing  words,  or  attempt  dramatic  effect.  She 
was  herself  there  before  them  in  flesh  and  blood,  and  no 
great  time  before  she  had  been  on  heathen  ground,  had 
come  into  actual  combat,  face  to  face,  with  wild,  savage 
men  and  strange,  outlandish  women,  who  knew  not  God, 
and  who  veritably  and  visibly  bowed  down  to  wood  and 
stone. 

For  the  hour,  that  little  woman  of  weak  bodily  pres- 
ence and  commonplace  intellect  became  the  incarnation 
of  Christianity  seeking  a  lost  world,  and  she  herself  was 
far  greater  to  their  thought  than  anything  she  could  have 
said. 

At  the  end  of  her  report,  for  it  was  that  rather  than 
appeal  or  address,  she  told  the  story  of  a  high-caste 
Hindu  woman  to  whom  she  had  sought  to  give  the  gos- 
pel message.  This  woman  had  turned  upon  her  with 
grave  wonder  and  had  asked,  u  How  long  have  you 
known  this  ?  about  this  Jesus  ?  " 

"  Oh,  for  many  years,  all  my  life  in  fact." 


22  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"Then,"  said  the  woman,  solemnly,  u  why  did  you  not 
come  to  tell  us  before  ?  " 

Without  comment  or  enlargement,  having  told  of  this 
occurrence,  the  speaker  turned  and  walked  shyly  from 
the  platform,  leaving  an  unusual  hush  in  the  assembly,  as 
if  an  event,  a  result  of  some  sort,  were  waited  for. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  church,  where  she  was  seated 
with  her  mother,  Anna  Mallison  rose  in  her  place,  made 
her  way  out  into  the  middle  aisle,  and  then,  with  her  head 
a  little  bent,  but  her  face  neither  pale  nor  agitated,  walked 
quietly  to  the  foot  of  the  platform.  Samuel  Mallison, 
who  was  seated  with  Dr.  Durham  behind  the  pulpit, 
rose  and  stood,  just  above,  as  if  to  receive  her,  looking 
down  with  solemn  eyes.  Some  one  who  saw  Anna's 
face  said  that,  as  she  looked  up  into  that  of  her  father 
thus  bent  above  her,  the  smile  which  suddenly  illumi- 
nated it  was  beyond  earthly  beauty.  It  was  a  look  in 
which  two  human  spirits,  and  those  father  and  child, 
purged  as  far  as  might  be  of  earthliness,  met  in  angelic 
interchange,  pure  and  high. 

Turning  about,  thus  facing  the  great  congregation, 
Anna,  who  had  never  before  spoken  in  a  public  gather- 
ing of  any  sort,  however  small,  said  in  a  voice  which 
was  clear  and  distinct,  though  not  loud  :  — 

"  I  wish  to  offer  myself  to  this  society  to  go,  if  they 
will  send  me,  to  some  heathen  people,  to  tell  them  that 
Christ  has  died  to  save  them.  I  am  ready  to  go  at  once, 
if  it  is  thought  best." 

The  gravity  and  simplicity,  and  absence  of  self-con- 
sciousness, of  the  girl's  words  and  bearing,  and  the  pro- 
found sympathy  of  the  people  who  saw  and  heard  her, 
combined  to  produce  an  overpowering  impression.  As 
the   meeting   broke   up,  women   were  weeping   all   over 


Morning  33 

the  house,  and  sturdy  unemotional  men  were  deeply 
moved. 

Anna,  seeing  that  many  would  surround  her  and 
speak  their  sympathy  or  give  their  praise,  which  she 
dreaded  and  feared  to  hear,  turned  with  swift  steps  to 
the  door  nearest  her,  and  so  escaped  into  the  outer  dark- 
ness of  the  night,  no  one  following. 

But,  as  she  hurried  with  light  steps  across  the  village 
green  and  reached  the  parsonage  gate,  she  found  Mally 
waiting  to  waylay  her. 

"  Oh,  Anna,"  she  cried,  and  her  tears  flowed  fast, 
"you  will  go  away  from  me,  from  all  of  us  !  How  can 
you  put  this  great  distance  between  us  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  do  anything  else,  Mally  ?  "  Anna  an- 
swered softly.  "  It  is  what  I  have  been  waiting  for ;  I 
think  I  was  never  truly  happy  until  to-night.  All  my 
life  before  I  have  been  unsatisfied,  and  something  has 
ached  and  hurt  whenever  I  stopped  to  feel  it." 

"  And  to-night  you  are  really  happy  ?  "  cried  her 
friend,  half  enviously,  and  yet  by  no  means  drawn  to 
devote  herself  to  the  medley  of  crocodiles,  dark-skinned 
babies,  and  cars  of  Juggernaut,  which  signified  India  to 
her  mind. 

"  Oh,  at  last !  "  Anna  exclaimed,  and  with  a  long 
breath  of  relief.  "  Will  it  not  bring  peace,  Mally,  to 
know  that  I  am  surely  doing  His  will  ?  It  will  be  like 
pure  sunshine  after  living  in  a  fog  these  past  years." 

"  Then  weren't  you  really  happy  when  you  were  con- 
verted and  joined  the  church  ?  "   asked  Mally,  naively. 

"  Partly.  But  just  to  be  happy  because  you  are  saved 
yourself — why,  it  does  not  last.  And  you  know,  dear, 
we  could  never  find  anybody's  soul  to  work  for  here  in 
Haran  ;  at   least,  we  didn't  know   how,"  and  Anna  be- 

D 


34  A   Woman  of  Yesterday- 

came  silent,  the  vision  of  one  solitary  outcast  coming 
before  her,  with  whom  she  had  been  forbidden  even  to 
speak.  But  Mally  refused  to  be  comforted  thus,  and 
went  her  way  with  many  tears. 

There  were  more  tears  for  Anna  to  encounter  that 
night,  for  her  mother  came  home  broken-hearted.  The 
Lord  had  answered  her  husband's  daily  prayer,  and  had 
graciously  chosen  one  of  their  own  family  to  preach  the 
gospel  to  the  heathen,  and  the  answered  prayer  was  more 
than  the  loving  soul  could  sustain.  Like  Jacob,  she 
could  get  no  farther  than  the  wail,  "  If  I  am  bereaved, 
I  am  bereaved." 

Not  so  Samuel  Mallison.  Too  long  had  he  schooled 
himself  to  the  sacrifice  of  his  dearest  human  and  earthly 
desires.  The  long  discipline  of  his  life  stood  him  now 
in  good  stead.  Coming  into  the  room  where  Anna  was 
vainly  seeking  to  comfort  her  mother,  he  laid  his  hands 
in  blessing  on  her  head,  and  with  a  look  upward  which 
stilled  the  weeping  woman,  he  pronounced  the  ancient 
words  :  — 

"  Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace,  according 

to  thy  word  ; 
For  mine  eyes  have  seen  thy  salvation." 

And  yet  Anna  was  the  very  apple  of  his  eye.  Of 
such  fibre  was  the  altruism  of  that  rugged  first  growth. 


CHAPTER   V 

Life  !  life  !   thou  sea-fugue,  writ  from  cast  to  west, 
Love,  Love  alone  can  pore 
On  thy  dissolving  score 
Of  harsh  half-phrasings, 

Blotted  ere  writ, 
And  double  erasings 
Of  chords  most  fit. 

—  Sidney  Lanier. 

From  the  time  of  the  missionary  meeting  and  the 
announcement  of  his  daughter's  determination  to  devote 
herself  to  the  service  of  Christ  in  a  heathen  land,  Samuel 
Mallison's  health  declined  rapidly.  His  Nunc  Dimittis 
was  of  literal  import,  and  prophetic. 

Whether  the  death  which  all  who  loved  him  saw  that 
he  was  soon  to  accomplish  could  be  called  dying  of 
heart-break  or  dying  of  fulfilled  desire,  would  have  been 
hard  to  determine.  Heart  and  flesh  cried  out  against 
the  separation  from  his  best-beloved  child,  while  the 
triumphant  spirit  blessed  God  for  answered  prayer,  and 
for  the  fruition  in  that  cherished  life  of  his  child  of 
hopes  and  aspirations  which  had  been  but  scantily  ful- 
filled in  his  own. 

"  I  have  not  been  a  successful  man,  Anna,"  he  said 
to  her  one  autumn  day  when  they  were  alone  in  his 
study.  He  sat  erect  in  his  straight  chair,  but  with  an 
unmistakable  languor  in  every  line  of  face  and  frame, 
and  with  a  feverish  brightness  in  his  prominent  dark 
eyes. 

Anna  laid  her  hand  upon  his  with  endless  gentleness. 
35 


36  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  No  man  in  Haran  is  so  beloved,  father.  No  man 
has  done  so  much  good." 

"  Perhaps,"  he  answered  sadly,  "  and  I  am  satisfied. 
It  is  the  will  of  God.  Anna,  I  have  seemed,  perhaps, 
cold  and  silent,  and  without  feeling  as  you  have  seen  me; 
but  the  fire  within  has  burned  unceasingly,  and  I  am 
consumed." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  lower  and  with  an  un- 
conscious pathos  which  moved  Anna  unspeakably. 

"  I  do  not  understand,  father  dear,  not  fully.  Can 
you  tell  me  all  ?      I  love  you  so." 

They  were  the  simplest  words  of  the  most  natural 
affection,  and  yet  it  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that 
Anna  had  spoken  after  this  sort  to  her  father. 

"  My  girl,"  he  said  simply,  taking  her  hand  within 
his  own.      Then,  after  a  pause,  he  continued  speaking. 

"  It  is  after  this  manner  that  life  has  gone  with  me. 
I  believe  I  ought  to  retrace  my  past  with  you  —  for  per- 
haps there  may  be  light  upon  your  path,  if  you  know  all. 
When  I  entered  the  ministry  it  was  with  sincerely  right 
purpose  ;  all  the  influences  of  my  life  pointed  me  in  that 
direction,  but  it  was,  perhaps,  more  as  an  intellectual  and 
congenial  profession  than  from  deeper  reasons.  I  began 
mv  ministry,  in  1 841,  in  Boston.  I  was  considered  to 
have  certain  gifts  which  were  valued  in  that  day,  and  all 
went  well,  on  the  surface.  But  it  was  the  period  of  a 
literary  awakening  in  our  nation,  of  which  Boston  was 
the  centre  of  influence.  An  American  literature  was 
just  becoming  a  visible  reality,  and  a  new  impulse  was  at 
work  and  stirring  everywhere.  Men  of  original  force 
were  suddenly  multiplied  before  us,  and  the  contagion  of 
intellectual  ambition  was  felt  in  an  altogether  new  degree. 
To  me  it  became  all-controlling.     Transcendental  phi- 


Morning  37 

losophy,  Platonism,  and  classic  learning  acquired  for  me 
a  supreme  attraction,  and  I  gave  myself  more  and  more 
to  the  study  of  them,  and  to  the  translation  of  Greek 
poetry.  This  had  no  unfavourable  effect  upon  my  preach- 
ing in  the  opinion  of  my  congregation,  rather  the  reverse, 
and  I  may  say  without  vanity  that  I  had  reached  com- 
paratively early  a  certain  eminence  to  which  I  was  by  no 
means  indifferent." 

Samuel  Mallison  paused  a  moment,  while  Anna 
silently  reflected  that  this  narrative  would  in  the  end 
explain  the  buried  books  of  her  dear  old  garret  delight. 

"  Learning  was  young  among  us  in  those  days, 
Anna,"  Samuel  Mallison  began  again  humbly,  after  a 
little  space,  "else  this  would  not  have  happened;  in 
the  year  1848  I  received  a  call  to  a  professorship  of  the 
Greek  language  and  literature  in  Harvard  College." 

Anna  felt  her  own  young  blood  rush  to  her  cheeks  in 
pride  and  wonder  and  amazement.  To  her  little-village 
simplicity  and  scanty  experience  this  seemed  a  surpassing 
distinction,  and  one  which  placed  her  father  among  the 
great  men  of  the  earth. 

"  The  day  after  the  mind  of  the  authorities  had  been 
made  known  to  me,  was  the  day  of  my  life  which  I 
remember  best,"  Samuel  Mallison  continued. 

"  I  went  to  my  study  that  morning  with  a  programme 
of  what  would  take  place  somewhat  definitely  before 
my  mind.  I  was  about  to  seek,  humbly  and  devoutly, 
an  interview  with  God,  in  which  I  would  lay  before 
him  this  new  and  momentous  opening  in  my  life,  and 
seek  to  have  his  will  for  me  made  clear.  What  this 
will  would  be,  or  what  I  should  take  it  to  be,  was,  just 
below  the  surface  of  my  mind,  a  foregone  conclusion. 
In  fact,  my  letter  of  acceptance  was  substantially  framed 


38  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

in  my  mind  already.  I  had  never  been  favoured  with 
voices  and  visions  and  revelations  clear  and  conclusive 
in  my  religious  experience,  and  I  foresaw  a  decision 
based  upon  general  reasonableness  and  preference, 
touched  with  a  pleasant  sense  of  the  divine  favour, 
which  might  naturally  be  expected  to  rest  upon  so 
congenial  a  course,  and  one  so  worthily  justified  by 
precedent.  I  read,  as  a  preparatory  exercise,  with  per- 
fect satisfaction,  the  twelfth  chapter  of  John's  Gospel, 
then  closed  my  Bible  and  knelt  in  prayer.  This  was 
exactly  as  I  had  foreseen  —  an  orderly  series  of  exer- 
cises befitting  my  position.  But,  oh ;  how  mechanical, 
how  cold,  how  barren  !  With  such  perfunctory  prac- 
tices I  could  think  to  take  leave  of  the  sacred  calling 
of  the  ministry,  so  dead  had  my  spirit  grown  to  the 
claims  of  the  blessed  gospel,  and  its  mission  of  salvation 
to  a  lost  and  perishing  world  ! 

"  I  knelt  and  thought  to  pray,  but,  like  the  king  in 
'Hamlet,'  my  words  flew  up,  my  thoughts  remained 
below.  Between  me  and  Him  whom  I  would  have 
approached,  interposed,  like  a  palpable  barrier,  a  solemn 
reiterated  echo  of  words  just  read  :  '  Verily,  verily,  I 
say  unto  you,  except  a  corn  of  wheat  fall  into  the 
ground  and  die,  it  abideth  alone ;  but  if  it  die,  it  bring- 
eth  forth  much  fruit.  He  that  loveth  his  life  shall 
lose  it.' 

"  I  rose  from  my  knees  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  in  great  anxiety  of  spirit.  This  new  work  which 
I  thought  to  undertake  was  educational,  ennobling,  nec- 
essary ;  in  no  way  contrary  to  sound  doctrine,  in  no 
way  a  betrayal  of  sacred  responsibility ;  I  was  fitted  for 
it  by  nature,  by  tastes,  and  attainments.  Why  was  it 
opened    to   me  ?     To   mock   me  ?   to  tempt  ?      I   could 


Morning  39 

not  believe  it,  I  had  welcomed  it  as  coming  in  the  provi- 
dence of  God. 

"  But  my  heart-searching  grew  swift  and  deep,  and 
it  was  given  me  to  see  the  absoluteness,  the  finality,  of 
the  vows  which  I  had  assumed,  from  which  I  straight- 
way realized  that  no  argument  of  those  with  which  I 
was  equipped  sufficed  to  release  me.  Feebly  and  im- 
perfectly, yet  sensibly,  I  began  to  grasp  the  import  of 
what  the  apostle  calls  the  fellowship  of  Christ's  suffer- 
ings, the  being  made  conformable  unto  his  death.  Oh, 
the  depth  of  the  mystery  hid  in  that  saying  !  All  these 
years  I  have  sounded  it  —  Anna,  all  these  years  I  have 
died,  in  my  own  natural  life  —  I  have  striven  to  give  all 
I  had  to  give,  but  the  'much  fruit'  —  where  has  it 
been  ? " 

An  expression  of  pain,  hardly  less  than  agony,  was 
impressed  upon  Samuel  Mallison's  face,  and  Anna  hid 
her  eyes,  finding  it  too  bitter  to  bear  to  see  him  suffer 
thus. 

"  I  put  it  all  away  from  me,  then  and  there.  Nothing 
was  possible  but  for  me  to  decline  the  invitation  which 
had  been  given,  you  can  see.  Further,  I  saw  that  my 
studies  had  been  my  snare.  My  love  of  poetry  and 
philosophy  and  learning,  the  prominence  of  my  pulpit, 
the  social  and  intellectual  affinities  I  had  formed,  all  had 
contributed  to  my  spiritual  deadness  and  decline.  It 
was  then  that  I  put  away  in  that  box,  now  upstairs,  the 
books  which  had  particularly  ministered  to  the  tastes 
which  had  led  me  so  far  from  the  true  conception  of  my 
life  work.  Never  since  that  day  have  I  allowed  myself 
to  follow  the  instinct  for  poetic  expression.  That  long- 
ing had  to  be  cut  out,  even  if  some  life-blood  flowed  in 
the  doing  it.      Henceforth,  I   wished   to  know  nothing 


40  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

but  Christ,  and  him  —  Anna,  do  not  fail  to  grasp  this 
—  him,  not  triumphant,  but  crucified.  The  offence  of 
the  cross  to  the  natural  spirit,  how  hardly  can  it  be  over- 
come !  No  child's  play,  no  easy  and  harmonious  growth 
in  grace,  has  it  been  to  me,  but  a  conflict  all  the  way. 
Your  mother  has  a  different  type  of  religious  life.  Be 
thankful  if  her  temperament  shall  prove  to  be  yours. 

"That  is  the  story.  I  left  my  church  not  very  long 
after  and  sought  this  rugged,  remote  section,  because  it 
offered  hard  work  and  a  needy  field,  which  some  men 
shunned.  Some  years  before  I  had  met  your  mother,  and 
we  were  married.  Twenty  years  of  my  life  and  its  best 
activity  have  been  spent  here  in  Haran.  Those  first 
few  years  and  what  made  life  to  me  in  them  I  have  looked 
upon  as  a  false  start.  From  that  day,  I  sought  only  this 
one  gift :  an  especial  enduement  of  the  Holy  Spirit  to 
give  me  power  with  men  unto  salvation.  I  desired  this 
gift  supremely,  but  I  have  not  received  it  in  any  signal 
manner.  My  ministry  has  not  been  wholly  unfruitful, 
but  it  has  been  lacking  in  the  results  for  which  I  hoped  ; 
I  have  not  had  power  with  God  and  men,  as  have  some 
of  my  more  favoured  brethren.  The  end  is  near  now, 
very  near,  but  I  come  with  almost  empty  hands  and  a 
humbled,  contrite  heart  to  meet  my  Judge.  But,  my 
child,  whatever  the  conflicts  of  the  past  years,  the  last 
thing  which  I  could  wish  for  to-day  would  be  to  have 
reversed  that  early  decision.  My  life,  from  the  merely 
human  point  of  view,  might,  perhaps,  on  the  line  of  intel- 
lectual effort  have  been  counted  successful,  while  as  a 
minister  of  Christ  it  has  not  been  so  to  any  marked  de- 
gree :  but  what  is  success,  and  what  failure,  when  the 
things  of  time  fade  before  our  eyes  ?  " 

Samuel  Mallison's  head  drooped  upon  one  supporting 


Morning  41 

hand,  and  an  expression  of  solemn  musing  rested  on  his 
face,  while  Anna's  tears  flowed  fast. 

"  Just  to  do  our  own  little  day's  work  faithfully,  not 
knowing  what  its  part  may  be  in  the  great  whole,  just 
to  hold  fast  to  the  word  of  God  and  the  testimony  of 
Jesus,  and,  having  begun  the  race,  to  continue  to  the  end 
—  is  not  this  enough  ?  " 

There  was  silence  between  them  for  some  moments, 
and   then    the    father   said,   making   a  sign   to  Anna  to 

rise :  — 

"  I  want  you  to  leave  me  now,  dear  child.  I  must 
rest.  The  one  earthly  hope  to  which  I  still  cling  is  that 
to  you  may  be  given  the  reward  of  '  much  fruit,'  which 
I  have  failed  to  win.  Remember  this,  if  all  the  other 
teaching  I  have  given  you  shall  be  forgotten  in  the  years 
which  are  to  try  you,  of  what  stuff  you  are  made  :  tvith 
greatness  we  have  nothing  at  all  to  do ;  faithfulness  only  is 

our  part." 

Anna  Mallison  listened  to  these  words  with  reverent 
sympathy  and  loving  response,  but  the  deeper  meaning 
of  them  did  not  reveal  itself  to  her,  her  time  for  per- 
ception being  not  yet  fully  come. 


CHAPTER   VI 

O  Joy,  hast  thou  a  shape  ? 

Hast  thou  a  breath  ? 

How  fillest  thou  the  soundless  air  ? 

Tell  me  the  pillars  of  thy  house  ! 

What  rest  they  on  ?     Do  they  escape 

The  victory  of  Death  ? 

—  H.  H. 

In  the  largest  theatre  of  the  New  England  city  of 
Springfield  on  a  night  in  December,  an  immense  assem- 
bly of  people  was  gathered.  Every  gallery  was  crowded 
to  its  utmost,  and  the  house,  from  floor  to  roof,  was  a 
dense  mass  of  human  beings.  On  the  stage  were  musi- 
cal instruments,  but  the  customary  scenery  was  with- 
drawn, save  that  the  background  showed  a  Neapolitan 
villa  situated  on  the  slope  of  a  Swiss  mountain,  at  the 
base  of  which  an  ultramarine  ocean  heaved  stormily. 
Against  the  incongruity  of  this  unstable  structure  were 
massed  several  hundred  men  and  women,  and  before 
them  a  musical  leader,  baton  in  hand.  At  an  appointed 
signal  the  great  chorus  stood,  and  with  them,  at  the  ges- 
ture of  a  man,  himself  seated  near  the  centre  of  the  fore- 
ground of  the  stage,  the  whole  audience,  with  a  rushing 
sound  like  the  sea  or  the  wind,  rose  also. 

Then  there  was  sung  by  the  chorus,  with  trained  per- 
fection, an  old  hymn,  the  words  of  which,  as  well  as  the 
melody,  were  of  quaint  and  almost  childish  simplicity  :  — 

"Alas,  and  did  my  Saviour  bleed  ? 
And  did  my  Sovereign  die  ? 
42 


Morning  43 

Would  he  devote  that  sacred  head 

For  such  a  worm  as  I  ? 
Was  it  for  crimes  that  I  had  done 

He  groaned  upon  the  tree  ? 
Amazing  pity,  grace  unknown, 

And  love  beyond  degree." 

With  a  swift  motion  of  his  baton  the  leader  indicated 
that  the  whole  assembly  was  to  join  in  singing  the  refrain, 
in  lowered  voices.  There  followed  in  a  deep  murmur 
of  a  pathos  quite  indescribable  :  — 

"Remember  me,  remember  me, 
Oh,  Lord,  remember  me  ! 
And  when  thou  sittest  on  thy  throne 
Dear  Lord,  remember  me." 

At  the  close  of  this  hymn  many  people  in  all  parts  of 
the  house  were  in  tears,  but  the  hush  of  motionless  silence 
following  was  complete,  and  the  eyes  of  all  were  riveted 
upon  that  central  figure  on  the  stage,  the  man  who  now 
rose  and,  advancing  to  the  front,  began  to  address  them. 

This  man  was  of  majestic  personal  presence  and  his 
speech  was  with  marked  power.  Thinly  veiled  under  a 
manner  of  unusual  restraint  and  quietness  lay  a  genius 
for  emotional  appeal  and  for  persuasion.  There  was  in 
his  manner  and  speech  an  utter  absence  of  excitability, 
and  yet  a  quality  which  excited ;  a  capacity  for  impas- 
sioned eloquence,  apparently  controlled  and  held  back 
by  the  speaker's  will.  The  congregation  listened  with 
absorbed  attention. 

At  the  close  of  the  address,  which  was  designed  to 
move  all  the  impenitent  or  irresolute  persons  present  to 
an  immediate  confession  of  their  need  of  a  Saviour,  the 
speaker  asked  those  of  this  class  who  were  present  and 


44  A   Woman  of  Yesterday 

were  so  inclined  to  advance  and  take  certain  seats, 
directly  in  front  of  the  stage,  which  had  been  reserved 
for  them. 

A  close  observer  would  have  been  interested  in  watch- 
ing the  man  as  this  part  of  the  evening's  work  was 
ushered  in.  The  restrained  intensity  of  his  manner  was 
noticeably  augmented ;  his  eyes  moved  slowly  and  search- 
ingly  from  one  part  of  the  house  to  another  with  a  gaze 
which  no  trifler  and  no  awakened  soul  might  escape. 
The  expression  of  his  face  was  sternly  solemn,  even 
tragical,  as  of  one  undergoing  an  actual  travail  of  spirit. 
He  stood  absolutely  motionless  save  for  a  single  and 
significant  gesture  of  his  right  hand,  an  upward  gesture 
made  with  peculiar  slowness  and  with  dramatic  effect. 
It  was  at  once  entreating,  subduing,  and  commanding. 

At  the  first  moment  no  person  stirred  ;  but  presently, 
as  if  drawn  by  an  irresistible  magnetism,  a  stream  of 
men  and  women  could  be  seen  advancing  down  the  vari- 
ous aisles,  with  fixed  look,  pallid  faces,  and  sometimes 
with  tears.  Upon  such  the  speaker  bent  a  look  of  gen- 
tleness and  encouragement,  in  which  his  features  would 
be  momentarily  relaxed,  only  to  resume  the  profound 
solemnity  already  spoken  of,  as  he  lifted  his  eyes  again 
to  the  unmoved  masses  still  confronting  him. 

The  chorus,  without  rising,  now  chanted  softly  the 
words  of  vivid  appeal :  — 

"Why  not  to-night  ?      Why  not  to-night  ? 
Thou  wouldst  be  saved,  why  not  to-night  ? ' ' 

Many  moments  passed.  The  company  of  seekers 
now  numbered  a  hundred.  Beneath  the  absolute  out- 
ward restraint  which  held  all,  an  inner  excitement  grew 
steadily  in  intensity,  and  the  subtle  contagion  of  "  the 


Morning  45 

crowd "  assumed  an  irresistible  sway.  It  might  have 
become  alarming.  It  possessed  elements  of  terror  just 
below  the  surface.  A  climax  was  reached  when  a  man 
of  gigantic  frame  and  brutalized  features,  in  the  upper 
gallery,  stepped  forward,  and  with  a  gesture  rude  and 
almost  wild,  flung  out  his  arms  toward  the  evangelist, 
and  called  through  the  silence  of  the  place  :  — 

"I  give  in — you  knew  I'd  have  to.  Yes,  I'm 
comin'."  And  then,  turning,  clattered  down  the  bare 
gallery  stairs,  only  to  reappear  presently  below,  with  his 
coarse  head  bent  and  big  tears  flowing  down  his  purple 
cheeks. 

Gradually  the  stream  of  seekers  abated,  and  the  aisles 
became  empty.  Thus  far  no  word  of  appeal  or  warn- 
ing had  been  added  to  the  sermon ;  save  for  the  re- 
strained monotony  of  the  music  this  extraordinary  scene 
had  taken  place  in  complete  silence. 

Then  the  speaker's  voice  was  heard  again,  and  in  it 
was  a  strange  emotional  quality  which  had  been  previ- 
ously unnoticed,  and  before  which  the  pride  and  will  of 
many  melted  within  them. 

"  The  people  of  this  company  are  dismissed  to  their 
homes,"  he  said,  in  gentle,  measured  tones  ;  "  my  work 
now  is  for  those  who  have  feared  God  rather  than  men. 
They  will  remain.  Let  all  others  go  without  unneces- 
sary delay,  or  stopping  for  speech  with  one  another. 
The  Spirit  is  here." 

The  benediction  followed,  but  as  they  broke  up,  scores 
hitherto  irresolute  turned  and  joined  the  company  of 
seekers  in  the  front  of  the  house. 

When  the  speaker,  the  house  being  otherwise  emp- 
tied, came  down  to  the  anxious  and  disquieted  little 
company  waiting  for  his  guidance,  he  stood  before  them 


46  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

in  silence  for  a  little  space,  and  then,  turning  to  a  group 
of  clergymen  who  were  associated  with  him,  he  said  :  — 

"  Pardon  me,  but  I  believe  I  will  leave  these  friends 
in  your  hands,  brethren.  I  wish  to  return  immediately 
to  my  lodging,"  and  saying  nothing  further  in  explana- 
tion or  apology,  he  departed,  with  evident  haste. 

When  he  reached  the  lobby  of  the  theatre  he  found 
three  men  watching  who  hastened  toward  him,  their 
spokesman,  with  outstretched  hand,  introducing  himself 
and  his  companions  and  adding,  with  eager  cordiality:  — 

"  This  is  so  much  better  than  we  expected.  We 
were  prepared  to  wait  for  you  some  time." 

The  man  received  the  greeting  gravely,  and,  indeed, 
silently. 

"  Will  you  come  with  us  now  to  our  hotel  ?  We 
wish  to  confer  with  you.  We  have  come  from  New 
York  for  that  purpose." 

"  Will  you  not  let  me  know  what  you  wish  here,  at 
once  ?  "  was  the  rejoinder.      "  I  am  in  some  haste." 

"  Certainly,  certainly,  if  you  prefer  it,"  said  the  other, 
cheerfully,  hiding  a  shade  of  discomfiture.  Then,  with 
a  change  to  serious  emphasis,  he  proceeded :  "  We 
want  you  to  undertake  a  v/ork  in  New  York  this  winter, 
as  soon  as  possible,  in  fact.  A  large  group  of  prominent 
churches  is  ready  to  unite  in  the  movement,  and  unlim- 
ited resources  will  be  placed  at  your  disposal.  Your  own 
compensation,  pardon  me  for  alluding  to  it,  will  be  any- 
thing you  will  name  —  that  is  a  matter  of  indifference  to 
the  committee,  save  that  it  be  large  enough.  We  are 
ready  to  build  you  a  tabernacle  two  hundred  feet  square, 
—  larger  if  you  like." 

The  man  addressed  involuntarily  laid  his  hand  on  his 
breast ;   a  letter  in  the  pocket  under  his  hand,  from  Chi- 


Morning  47 

cago,  specified  a  tabernacle  three  hundred  feet  square. 
He  smiled  slightly ;  even  religious  zeal  was  a  size  larger 
in  Chicago  than  elsewhere. 

Further  details  were  mentioned,  but  the  evangelist 
seemed  to  give  them  a  forced  and  mechanical  attention. 
Then,  rather  suddenly,  he  broke  in  with  a  word  of 
apology. 

"  I  am  fully  sensible,  gentlemen,"  he  went  on,  "  of 
the  confidence  you  have  manifested  in  me,  and  I  would, 
under  other  conditions,  have  accepted  your  proposition. 
But  the  very  circumstance  of  your  making  it  to-night 
hastens  an  action  on  my  part  which  I  have  been  ap- 
proaching, but  had  not,  until  now,  definitely  determined 
upon.  I  am  about  to  withdraw  from  this  work,  and  can 
form  no  engagements,  however  promising.  I  shall  close 
the  meetings  here  as  soon  as  I  can  honourably  do  so,  and 
these  meetings  are,  for  the  present  certainly,  my  last." 

The  blank  faces  of  the  three  men  before  him  seemed 
to  demand  a  v/ord  or  two  more. 

"  My  reasons  ?  "  he  asked  with  curt  and  almost  chill- 
ing brevity.  "  Pardon  me.  They  are  personal  to 
myself.  Good  evening.  No  one  can  regret  your  dis- 
appointment more  than  I."  With  these  words  the 
speaker  turned  abruptly  from  the  little  group  and  left 
the  theatre.  In  great  amazement  and  perplexity  the 
committee  of  three  presently   followed  his   example. 

Here  was  an  accredited  and  earnest  man,  no  irrespon- 
sible religious  tramp,  who  possessed,  apparently  in  a 
superlative  degree,  the  gift  of  winning  souls  for  which 
Samuel  Mallison  had  given  his  all,  if  in  vain,  and  for 
lack  of  which  he  might  fairly  be  said  to  be  dying,  being 
one  who  could  have  lived  on  spiritual  joy,  if  such  had 
ever  been  his  portion.     And  this  man,  possessing  this 


48  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

coveted  and  crowning  religious   endowment,  was  delib- 
erately putting  it  aside,  and  refusing  to  use  it.      What 

did  it  signify  ? 


Anna  Mallison  had  left  Haran,  in  its  ice-bound  valley, 
early  that  morning,  and,  by  travelling  through  snowdrifts 
in  a  sleigh  all  the  forenoon,  had  been  favoured  to  get 
as  far  as  Springfield  on  her  journey,  at  nine  o'clock  of 
that  same  evening.  She  was  bound  for  Boston,  where  she 
was  to  go  before  the  missionary  board  to  be  examined  as 
to  her  fitness  and  promise  for  a  worker  on  the  "  foreign 
field." 

At  the  Springfield  station  Anna  had  been  met  by  the 
little  missionary  lady  whom  she  had  heard  and  met  in 
Haran  on  her  night  of  great  decision.  By  her  she  had 
been  conducted  to  a  hotel,  shown  to  a  room,  affection- 
ately if  reticently  counselled,  and  then  left  to  sleep  and 
be  ready  for  another  early  start  on  the  following  morn- 
ing. It  was  the  first  time  Anna  had  ever  been  in  a  city, 
and  she  was  bewildered  by  the  noise  and  lights  in  the 
streets  through  which  she  had  been  hurriedly  driven. 

Left  alone,  she  looked  about  her  at  the  stiff  order  of 
the  narrow  hotel  chamber,  the  first  she  had  ever  inhab- 
ited, the  showy,  shabby  carpet,  the  cheap  carvings  of 
the  furniture,  the  long  mirror  in  which  she  herself  stood, 
still  and  dreary,  and  a  rushing  wave  of  heart-sickness 
swept  over  her.  Her  anxiety  for  her  father  became 
suddenly  poignant;  a  sense  of  the  sadness  of  his  life 
tore  her  heart  with  fierce  pain  :  she  realized  now,  as 
she  had  failed  to  before,  how  fast  his  strength  declined. 
She  longed  to  know  how  that  moment  fared  with  him, 
and  how  the  next  would.     A  wild  purpose  seized  her 


Morning  49 

to  return  the  next   morning  to  Haran,  and  let  all  other 
purposes  go  until  some  later  time. 

However,  in  spite  of  all  this  anxiety  and  doubt, 
Anna's  physical  weariness  was  sufficient  to  bring  sleep 
apace,  when  once  her  head  was  on  the  pillow,  and  all 
the  distant  murmur  of  the  city  and  the  sudden,  uncom- 
prehended  noises  of  the  great  house  were  soon  lost  to 
her.  Thus  she  failed  to  hear  a  man  who  entered  the 
room  next  to  hers  within  the  same  hour,  who  closed  the 
door  with  some  emphasis  and  locked  it  fast ;  who,  after 
that,  walked  up  and  down  within  the  narrow  limits  of 
that  room  with  uniform,  slow  step,  and  who  continued 
to  do  this  until  the  December  dawn  filtered  through  the 
dim  windows.  All  was  still  in  that  next  room  when 
Anna  awoke.  The  anxiety  and  homesickness  of  the 
night  before  were  gone,  and  in  their  place  was  that 
mysterious  joy  which  once  before  on  a  June  night  had 
strangely  visited  her.  Again,  in  her  dream,  she  had 
seen  the  face  which  ever  since  had  dominated  her ;  as 
before,  it  was  majestic,  free,  and  strong.  As  before,  it 
had  bent  to  her, — 

"Bent  down  and  smiled." 

She  rose  hastily,  glad  and  awed  and  greatly  wonder- 
ing. At  six  o'clock  she  was  ready  and  went  down  to 
the  great  dining-hall,  dark  save  for  the  wan  light  of  a 
single  gas  jet  under  which  she  sat  down,  silent  and 
alone,  and  was  served  by  a  heavy-eyed,  untidy  man- 
servant, with  an  indifferent  breakfast.  She  swallowed 
a  few  mouthfuls  by  force  of  will,  then  gathered  up  her 
humble  belongings,  and  started  out  alone  into  the  icy 
chill  of  the  grey  morning.  It  was  too  early  for  her 
friend  from  the  Orient  to  brave  the  rigours  of  the  un- 

E 


50  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

accustomed  winter.  It  was  all  comfortless,  dreary,  and 
inauspicious ;  small  cheer  for  a  young  girl  starting  on 
such  an  errand,  but  there  was  no  sinking  now  of  her 
spirit.  She  walked  to  the  Springfield  station  in  the  light 
and  warmth  of  that  inexplicable  radiance  of  her  dream, 
and  so  pursued  her  journey  to  Boston. 


FROM    ANNA    MALLISON  S    NOTE-BOOK. 

Do  you  believe  in  the  mutual  penetration  of  mind  ?  Do  you 
believe  that,  independent  of  word  and  voice,  independent  of 
distance,  from  one  end  of  the  world  to  the  other,  minds  can  in- 
fluence and  penetrate  one  another  ?  .  .  .  Do  you  not  know  a 
soul  can  feel  within  it  another  soul  which  touches  it  ? 

—  Pere  Gratry. 

"January  28,  18 JO.  —  A  week  to-day  since  my  father 
was  buried.  It  is  late  at  night,  and  I  have  come  up  to 
my  little  roof  room,  but  I  cannot  sleep.  I  have  been 
with  my  mother,  and  we  have  cried  together,  until  she 
sleeps  at  last,  so  tired,  and  her  dear  face  changed  so 
sadly  that,  as  she  slept,  I  was  almost  afraid.  And  yet 
she  is  greatly  upheld,  and  as  gentle  and  uncomplaining 
as  it  is  possible  to  be. 

But  for  me,  knowing  my  father,  and  trying  to  find 
the  meaning  of  his  life,  these  days  give  me  less  grief 
than  wonder  and  perplexity.  For  a  time  after  my 
father  told  me  the  story  of  his  past,  after  I  knew  what 
he  might  have  been,  knew  his  great  renunciation,  his 
utter  humilitv,  his  leaving  all  to  seek  one  only  thing, 
and  that  a  gift  for  others,  and  even  that  being  denied 
him,  so  that  to  himself  his  life  seemed  a  failure,  and 
its  supreme  sacrifice  unsanctioned  and  unblessed  —  after 


Morning  51 

this  I  could  hardly  bear  the  heart-break  of  it  all.  So 
pure,  so  blameless,  so  devoted  a  life,  and  yet,  to  his  own 
thought,  so  unfruitful.  Just  a  narrow  little  village 
church,  with  its  narrow  little  victories  and  defeats,  and 
its  monotony  of  spiritual  ebb  and  flow  —  this  was  the 
sum  of  his  achievement.  Was  it  not  hard  of  God  ? 
This  he  would  not  have  said,  but  my  undisciplined  heart 
has  cried  out  in  bitterness  and  rebellion.  I  have  been 
in  deep  doubt  and  darkness. 

To-night  it  is  given  me  to  see  it  all  in  light,  and  I  am 
reconciled.  The  word  which  changed  my  father's  life 
was  that  great  word  of  the  Master,  "  Except  a  corn  of 
wheat  fall  into  the  ground  and  diey  it  abideth  alone." 
That  dying,  the  utterness  of  it,  was  what  we  did  not 
comprehend.  I  think  my  father  understood  before  he 
left  us,  although  he  could  not  express  it.  But  all  along 
he  had  felt  that  in  dying  in  his  own  personal  life  to  the 
world  and  to  his  ambition,  he  was  meeting  the  condi- 
tion, and  that  in  his  own  personal  life  the  fruits  of  that 
death  were  to  be  manifest,  that  he  should  be  set  for  the 
salvation  of  many.  But  God  sees  not  with  our  short 
vision.  Days  with  him  are  years,  and  years  days  ;  and 
our  whole  life  but  a  vapour,  which  appeareth  for  a  little 
time,  and  then  vanisheth  away. 

This  has  come  to  me :  My  father's  sacrifice  has  borne 
in  the  life  of  one  of  his  children,  if  not  in  all,  the  fruit 
of  an  especial  dedication  of  that  life  to  the  service  of 
God.  If  he  had  not  been  the  man  he  was,  if  he  had 
not  laid  down  his  life  daily  and  hourly  in  humble  self- 
surrender  to  the  Divine  Will,  never,  never  should  I  have 
dreamed  of  giving  myself  to  the  work  to  which  I  am 
now  pledged.  His  life,  in  its  deepest  working,  had  been 
wrought  into  mine,  so  that  unconsciously  I  willed  to  be 


5 2  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

what  he  would  have  willed  to  have  me.  So,  then,  it  is 
no  more  I  alone,  but  the  spirit,  the  will,  the  nature  of 
my  father  that  worketh  in  me. 

The  God  of  my  father —  this  phrase,  so  common,  so 
almost  commonplace  before,  has  suddenly  taken  to  itself 
an  extraordinary  significance.  My  father's  God,  my 
God,  who  began  in  my  father's  willing  sacrifice  of  all 
the  noblest  powers  of  his  manhood  his  purpose  of  grace, 
will  now,  in  his  good  pleasure,  carry  on  the  one  work, 
the  same  so  begun,  through  me,  all  unworthy  as  I  am, 
timid,  trembling,  but  a  child.  A  child,  and  yet  called 
with  this  high  calling ;  child  of  a  saint,  called  solemnly, 
sacredly,  in  the  very  depths  of  my  being,  deeper  than  I 
feel,  higher  than  I  know,  to  be  my  father's  child,  to  be 
the  continuance,  the  fulfilment  of  his  dying  life,  to  fin- 
ish what  he  began,  to  bring  to  fruitage  the  seed  he  died 
to  sow.  How  sublime,  how  sweet,  how  awful  the  voca- 
tion wherewith  I  am  called  ! 

Then  look  upon  me,  O  my  God,  my  father's  God  ! 
Behold  my  weakness  ;  raise  it  into  power ;  turn  my  dull 
mind  to  light,  my  hard  and  narrow  heart  to  a  flame  of 
love  ;  make  me  thy  minister,  thy  messenger,  fulfil  in  me 
all  thy  great  will. 

February  20.  —  To-night  I  am  alone  in  the  old  home, 
not  our  home  any  more.  It  is  stripped  already  of  all  that 
made  it  home,  but,  bare  and  grim  as  it  is,  I  love  it,  and 
leave  it  with  a  sorrow  my  heart  is  yet  too  tired  to  realize. 
They  have  consented  to  let  me  sleep  this  one  last  night 
in  my  own  little  room.  This  poor  bed  is  to  be  left, 
being  not  worth  removing,  and  all  that  clothes  it  goes 
with  me.  So,  like  a  pilgrim,  under  a  tent  roof  for  a 
single  night,  I  lie  alone,  and  look  up  beyond  the  dear  old 
gable  and  see  the  winter  stars. 


Morning  53 

They  shine  upon  his  grave,  and  the  snow  already  has 
drifted  over  it,  and  my  heart  bleeds.  Why  will  they  not 
let  us  pray  for  our  dead  as  the  Romish  people  do  ?  Oh, 
kind  little  father,  gone  what  dim,  dazzling  wav  I  do  not 
know,  will  they  let  you  be  happy  at  last  ?  Will  God  let 
you  see  why  ? 

February  21. —  It  was  a  strange  night,  and  yet  most 
beautiful. 

I  hardly  slept,  but  prayed  until  nearly  dawn.  Then 
I  slept  a  short  time,  and  woke  to  find  my  limbs  racked 
with  pain  from  the  bitter  chill  of  the  room,  and  tears 
running  down  my  face.  Almost  as  if  I  were  carrying 
out  an  order  given  me  in  my  sleep,  I  hurried  on  my 
clothing,  and,  taking  my  candle,  came  down  the  stairs, 
both  flights,  through  the  empty,  echoing  house,  to  the 
rooms  below.  I  was  so  cold  that  I  shook  from  head  to 
foot.  Then  I  found  in  the  kitchen  wood  left  from  our 
store,  and  I  brought  it  into  the  east  room,  the  parlour, 
where  we  laid  my  father  after  his  death,  and  where  I  had 
sat  beside  his  dear  form  each  night.  The  great  fire- 
place was  bare  and  empty,  like  the  room,  but  the  andirons 
were  left. 

I  laid  the  wood  across  and  started  the  fire,  and  it 
blazed  and  gave  light,  and  threw  strange  shadows  about 
the  room,  and  I  kneeled  beside  it,  on  the  hearth,  as  I 
used  sometimes  when  I  was  a  little  child,  and  warmed 
my  hands,  and  still  I  cried,  and  there  was  no  one  to 
comfort  me. 

Mally  says  she  would  have  been  afraid  —  in  that 
room.  I  cannot  understand.  It  is  because  her  dear- 
est have  not  died.  What  of  him  could  have  been  any- 
thing but  precious?  To  have  felt  his  spirit  near  me! 
That  would  indeed  have  been  holy  consolation. 


54  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

But  what  if  that  were  true  ?  I  do  not  know.  While 
I  so  crouched  in  the  chimney  corner,  my  heart  bleeding, 
and  the  tears  bathing  my  poor  face,  there  was  a  soft 
touch,  lighter  than  the  flight  of  a  thistledown,  passing 
over  my  head,  as  if  the  gentlest  hand  God  himself  could 
make  gentle  had  smoothed  my  hair,  and  sought  to  com- 
fort me. 

Then  some  one  said  :  "  I  came  here  to  be  with  you." 
But  I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  I  who  so  said  in  my 
own  heart,  or  whether  the  words  were  spoken  to  my  ear. 
I  only  know  that  I  was  comforted,  and  the  fire  warmed 
my  aching  limbs,  and  my  head  drooped  against  the  wall, 
and  I  slept  with  long  sobs,  as  I  slept  once  when  I  was 
a  child,  and  my  dear  father  ministered  to  me. 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  I  awoke,  and  I  felt  soothed 
and  strongo  I  rose  to  go  and  make  ready  to  lock  and 
leave  the  house.  But  first  I  knelt  and  prayed,  and  I  am 
praying  still. 

Live  in  me,  O  God,  as  my  father  lives  in  me,  and  as 
thou  didst  live  in  him.  Let  me  live  the  life  and  die 
the  death  which  he  sought  to  live,  to  die,  for  thee. 
Give  thou  unto  him  through  me  abiding  fruit  in  the 
salvation  of  souls  ;  and  grant  us  such  grace  as  that  we 
may  humbly  and  worthily  fulfil  thy  gracious  will,  I 
on  earth,  as  he  in  heaven. 


CHAPTER   VII 

She  [Dorothea]  could  not  reconcile  the  anxieties  of  a  spiritual  life  involving 
eternal  consequences,  with  a  keen  interest  in  gimp,  and  artificial  protrusions  of 
drapery. —  Middlemarch,  George  Eliot. 

A  small  house  in  a  small  street  of  a  small  provincial 
city.  A  faded  brown  house  with  its  front  door  directly 
on  the  street,  the  steps  jutting  into  the  sidewalk.  A 
narrow  strip  of  yard  overlaid  with  grimy  snow  separated 
this  house  from  others  on  either  side,  equally  unnotable 
and  uninteresting,  the  dwellings  of  mechanics  and  small 
tradesmen. 

It  was  the  close  of  a  rough  March  day,  the  wind  had 
not  died  with  sunsetting,  and  a  thin,  piercing  rain,  colder 
than  snow,  was  driven  before  it  into  the  very  teeth  of 
the  few  passers-by. 

A  tall  woman,  in  a  straight  black  dress  with  a  dyed 
black  shawl  drawn  tightly  around  her  shoulders,  was 
making  her  way  down  the  street  dead  against  the  wind, 
which  beat  her  hair  out  into  wet  strands  and  bound  her 
skirts  hard  about  the  slender  long  limbs.  She  made  no 
useless  attempt  to  hold  an  umbrella ;  in  fact,  she  carried 
none,  but  was  heavily  burdened  with  four  or  five  large 
books.  She  was  girlish  in  figure  after  a  severe  sort,  her 
step  steady,  her  movement  without  impatience  or  flutter- 
ing, in  spite  of  the  struggle  with  the  wind.  Seeing  her 
face,  the  absorbedness  of  sorrow  in  it  was  profound 
enough  to  explain  indifference  to  sharper  bufFetings  than 
those  of  the  wind.     It  was  Anna  Mallison. 

55 


56  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

When  she  reached  the  house  she  deposited  her  books 
on  the  icy  step  and  drew  from  her  pocket  with  stiffened, 
aching  fingers  a  key  with  which  she  unlocked  the  door. 
The  house  was  unlighted,  and  its  close,  airless  precincts 
apparently  empty. 

Stooping,  Anna  gathered  her  books  again  and  closed 
the  door,  then  groped  her  way  to  a  steep  staircase,  a 
weary  sigh  escaping  her  as  if  in  spite  of  herself.  The 
room  which  she  entered,  silent  and  dark  at  her  coming, 
showed  itself,  when  she  had  lighted  a  lamp,  a  low  but 
spacious  living  room,  stiffly  and  even  meagrely  furnished. 
Opening  beyond  it  was  a  smaller  bedroom. 

Having  laid  aside  shawl  and  bonnet,  Anna  made  prep- 
aration for  a  simple  evening  meal  for  two  persons.  Not 
until  these  were  made  did  she  stop  to  realize  that  she 
was  chilled  and  that  her  shoes  were  wet  through.  Char- 
acteristically it  was  of  the  shoes  she  took  cognizance 
rather  than  of  her  feet  —  circumstances  having  thus  far 
led  her  to  regard  health  as  an  easier  thing  to  acquire  than 
food  and  raiment. 

There  was  a  sudden  outburst  now,  from  below,  of 
merry  voices,  both  a  man's  voice  and  a  girl's,  in  loud 
and  cheerful  banter,  then  the  house  door  shut  with  a 
bang,  there  was  a  quick  step  on  the  stairs,  and  a  gay, 
fluttering,  wind-blown  figure  of  a  pretty  girl  appeared  in 
the  upper  sitting  room.  It  was  Mally  Loveland,  Anna's 
early  Haran  friend  and  companion. 

"  Holloa,  Anna  !  "  she  called  lightly,  "  lucky  for  me 
you  got  in  first !  A  fire  is  a  good  thing,  I  tell  you,  on  a 
night  like  this."  Mally's  voice  had  acquired  a  new  ring 
of  self-confident  vivacity. 

"  You're  a  little  late,  Mally,"  remarked  Anna,  quietly, 
as  she  returned  to  the  room.      "  Shall  I  make  tea  ?  " 


Morning  57 

"  Oh,  yes,  do  ;  there's  a  dear.  Oh,  such  fun  as  we've 
been  having  at  the  Aliens' !  But  I'm  so  chilly  and  damp, 
you  know ;  and  just  look,  Anna,  at  the  ribbons  on  my 
hat."  Mally  held  up  to  view  a  pretentious  structure  of 
ribbon  and  velvet  which  had  plainly  suffered  many  things 
of  the  elements. 

"  Too  bad.  I  hope  you  won't  go  out  again  to-night, 
your  cold  was  so  bad  yesterday.    It  is  a  wretched  night." 

"Oh,  I  must  go  out,  my  dear — must  indeed! 
Couldn't  disappoint  the  girls,  you  know." 

"  Nor  even  the  boys  ?  "  asked  Anna  smiling. 

Mally  laughed  at  this,  evidently  pleased.  In  a  few 
moments  she  was  ready  and  they  took  their  places  at 
the  tea-table,  Mally  quieting  herself  with  an  effort,  in 
order  to  ask  a  brief  blessing  upon  the  meal.  It  was 
her  turn  to-night.  The  two  cooperated  in  their  reli- 
gious exercises  of  a  general  character,  as  well  as  in  their 
housekeeping. 

Destiny,  so  eagerly  challenged  by  these  two  village 
girls  in  the  eventless  isolation  of  their  life  in  Haran, 
seemed  at  last  to  have  declared  itself  decisively  :  both 
were  to  catch  men,  —  Anna  in  the  apostolic  sense,  Mally 
in  a  different  one. 

Anna's  journey  to  Boston,  three  months  earlier,  had 
been  successful.  She  had  returned  under  appointment 
as  a  missionary  to  India ;  but  being  still  too  young  to  go 
out,  the  Board  had  advised  her  to  spend  the  following 
two  years  in  studies  especially  designed  to  develop  her 
usefulness  in  work  among  the  heathen.  In  January 
Samuel  Mallison  had  died.  The  parsonage,  where  the 
children  had  been  born  and  nurtured,  could  thus  no 
longer  be  their  home.  It  must  be  made  ready  now  for  a 
successor. 


58  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

It  had  been  a  sorrowful  breaking  up,  and  when  the 
melancholy  work  was  done,  and  the  home  effaced  for- 
ever, the  mother,  patient  and  uncomplaining,  departed 
with  Lucia  to  the  lonely  farmhouse  among  the  hills,  to 
take  on  again,  in  her  later  years  of  life,  the  many  cares 
of  tending  little  children.  It  was  then  that  Anna, 
accompanied  by  her  friend  Mally,  had  come  to  Burling- 
ton with  the  purpose  of  studying  at  a  collegiate  institute, 
which  offered  opportunity  for  more  advanced  study  than 
could  be  had  in  Haran.  Anna  was  hard  at  work  every 
morning  on  Paley's  "Evidences"  and  Butler's  "Analogy," 
while  her  afternoons  were  spent  in  the  small  hospital  of 
the  town,  in  an  informal  nurses'  class,  as  it  was  even 
then  considered  a  useful  thing  for  missionaries  to  go  out 
with  some  equipment  for  healing  the  bodies  of  men  as 
well  as  their  souls.  Mally,  by  her  own  account,  was 
"  taking  "  music,  painting,  and  French. 

As  they  sat  at  their  little  table  now,  with  its  meagre 
and  humble  fare,  but  its  indefinable  expression  of  refine- 
ment, Anna  and  Mally  were  in  striking  contrast. 

It  has  been  said  before  that  Anna  matured  slowly. 
There  was  still  in  her  face,  despite  its  sadness,  the  grave 
wonder,  the  artless  simplicity,  and  the  sweet  unconscious- 
ness of  a  child.  Her  figure  was  angular  and  undeveloped  ; 
her  black  dress,  absolutely,  harshly  plain,  and  of  coarse 
stuff;  her  face,  far  too  thin  and  colourless  for  beauty. 
She  was,  plainly,  underfed  and  overworked ;  but  there 
was,  nevertheless,  a  dignity  and  a  distinction  in  her 
aspect  which  emphasized  Mally's  provincialness,  not- 
withstanding the  little  fashionable  touches  about  dress 
and  coiffure  which  the  latter  had  swiftly  and  instinctively 
adapted  to  her  own  use. 

Anna   had   the   repose  of  a  person  who  is  not  con- 


Morning  59 

cerned  at  all  as  to  the  impression  she  makes,  or  desirous 
of  making  any  personal  impression  whatever.  Mally 
had  the  restlessness,  the  vivacity,  the  eagerness,  of  a 
woman  who  wishes  everywhere  and  at  every  time  to 
make  herself  felt,  to  be  the  central  figure.  She  was 
born  an  egotist,  and  even  "  divine  grace,"  in  the  devo- 
tional phraseology  of  that  time,  had  not  been  sufficient  to 
overcome  her  natural  bent.  At  the  present  time,  in  fact, 
egotism  was  having  comparatively  easy  work  with  her, 
and  an  indefinite  truce  with  the  religious  conflicts  of  ear- 
lier days  had  been  tacitly  declared.  That  spiritual  expe- 
rience had  been  sincere,  and  it  had  lasted  several  years. 
Fortunately,  to  Mally's  unspoken  thought,  she  had  been 
favoured  during  those  years  to  work  out  her  salvation, 
which  was  now,  according  to  a  prime  doctrine  of  the 
church,  secured  to  her  against  all  accidents.  This  being 
so,  no  one  need  be  concerned  for  her ;  and  if  she  were 
herself  satisfied  with  a  low  spiritual  attainment,  it  was 
nobody's  business  but  her  own. 

She  had,  to  her  own  naive  surprise,  met  with  a  marked 
degree  of  social  success  in  a  certain  middle-class  stratum 
of  the  small  town.  She  was  pretty,  clever,  adaptive;  the 
young  men  and  women  of  her  set  said  she  was  "  such 
good  company."  This  was  high  praise.  In  Haran  the 
natural  order  for  a  marriageable  girl  was  to  be  soberly 
and  decorously  and  protractedly  wooed  by  one  young 
man,  to  whom,  in  process  of  time,  she  was  married. 
Here  Mally  found  a  far  more  stimulating  social  condi- 
tion. Not  one  man,  but  many,  might  be  the  portion  of 
a  popular  girl,  and  Mally  found  the  strength  of  numbers 
very  great.  The  sex  instinct,  the  ruling  desire  to  attract 
men,  sprang  into  vigorous  action,  and  became,  for  a  time 
at  least,  predominant.       Women  of  whom  this  is  true 


60  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

are  often  very  good  women,  with  energy  and  common 
sense,  but  it  is  important  for  their  friends,  for  various 
reasons,  to  hold  the  master  key  to  their  character. 

Anna  Mallison,  at  this  period  of  her  life  as  sexless  in 
her  conscious  life  as  a  star,  looked  on  at  this  rapid  and 
unlooked-for  development  of  Mally's  nature  in  infinite 
perplexity.  She  had  always  liked  certain  men,  even  out- 
side her  own  kindred,  but  it  was  because  they  were  wise 
or  good  or  sincere,  not  because  they  were  men.  A  thirst 
for  admiration  being  thus  far  undeclared  in  her  own  life, 
Mally  became  inexplicable  to  her;  she  did  not  hold  the 
key  to  her  character,  and  involuntarily  she  withdrew 
more  and  more  into  herself,  her  only  friend  becoming 
thus  uncomprehended.  If  she  felt  this  in  any  degree, 
Mally,  being  closely  occupied  with  more  tangible  con- 
sideration, paid  small  heed  to  it. 

While  they  were  taking  tea,  Anna  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  mantel  clock,  and,  having  eaten  hastily,  rose  from 
her  place. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  asked  Mally,  looking  up. 
"  Oh,  of  course;  but,  dear  me,  Anna,  I  never  would  bother 
to  get  things  ready  for  old  Marm  Wilson,  after  the  way 
she  grumbles  at  you.  Sit  down,  do.  You'll  never  get 
any  thanks,  I  can  tell  you  that ;  and  what's  the  use  ?  " 

Anna  was  at  the  door  already.  "I  think  it's  late 
enough  now  to  be  safe.  She  only  grumbles,  you  know, 
if  the  oil  and  wood  burn  out  awhile  before  she  gets  here. 
She  was  to  work  quite  near  on  Hill  Street,  to-day,  so  she 
will  surely  be  in  early." 

"  Oh,  well,  go  on  if  you've  a  mind  to.  I  suppose  it 
is  forlorn  on  a  night  like  this  for  the  poor  old  creature  to 
find  her  house  all  dark  and  cold,"  Mally  spoke  carelessly, 
half  to  herself.      Anna  was  already  half-way  downstairs. 


Morning  61 

Mrs.  Wilson  was  their  houseowner,  a  seamstress  of 
narrow  means  and  narrower  life  whose  upper  rooms  they 
rented. 

An  hour  later  the  upper  sitting  room  was  suddenly 
enlivened  and  almost  filled,  as  far  as  seating  capacity  was 
concerned,  by  a  group  of  Mally's  friends,  who  had  come 
to  escort  her  to  an  evening  gathering.  These  young 
men  and  maidens,  whom  Anna  had  scarcely  seen  before, 
seemed  to  explain  the  new  Mally  to  her,  and  to  place 
her  at  a  different  angle,  as  one  of  a  class,  not  one  by  her- 
self. The  girls  all  wore  a  profusion  of  ribbons  and 
curls,  and  were  all  in  an  effervescence  of  noisy  excite- 
ment regarding  the  effect  of  the  dampness  on  their  hair 
and  their  finery  ;  they  whispered  and  giggled  together, 
and  pouted  at  the  young  men,  or  tossed  their  heads  and 
assumed  exaggerated  airs  of  being  shocked  at  the  per- 
sonal remarks  which  these  attendants  volunteered,  and 
with  which  they  were,  in  fact,  palpably  delighted. 

Anna,  who  attempted  some  quiet  civilities  from  time 
to  time,  was  regarded  with  undisguised  indifference,  as 
not  being  "  one  of  the  set." 

After  the  young  people  had  left  the  house,  however, 
Mally's  companion  on  their  expedition,  a  young  man 
somewhat  above  the  others  in  intelligence,  said  to  her:  — 

"  What  an  unusual  girl  that  friend  of  yours,  that  Miss 
Mallison,  is.  I  never  met  any  one  just  like  her.  She 
strikes  me  as  a  girl  who  would  keep  a  fellow  at  a  mighty 
distance;  but  if  she  ever  did  care  for  him,  he  wouldn't 
mind  dying  for  her,  you  know,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
But  she  isn't  one  of  the  kind  you  like  to  play  games 
with." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

She  was  a  queen  of  noble  Nature's  crowning, 

A  smile  of  hers  was  like  an  act  of  grace  ; 

She  had  no  winsome  looks,  no  pretty  frowning, 

Like  daily  beauties  of  the  vulgar  race  j 

But,  if  she  smiled,  a  light  was  on  her  face, 

A  clear,  cool  kindliness,  a  lunar  beam 

Of  peaceful  radiance. 

—  Hartley  Coleridge. 

To  the  surprise  of  both  the  friends,  Anna,  who  had 
gone  about  her  rigorous  tasks  unseen  and  unnoted  hith- 
erto, began  about  this  time  to  come  into  a  certain  com- 
parative prominence  in  the  quiet  little  city. 

A  day  or  two  after  the  evening  described  in  the  last 
chapter,  Anna  received  a  note  from  Mrs.  Ingraham,  the 
wife  of  a  distinguished  citizen  of  the  town,  a  man  of 
great  wealth,  and  a  well-known  senator.  The  Ingra- 
hams  were,  perhaps,  the  most  highly  placed  family  in 
the  little  town,  by  right  of  distinguished  antecedents,  of 
wealth,  and  of  habit  of  life.  They  belonged  to  that 
singularly  privileged  class,  which  Anna  Mallison  had 
not  hitherto  encountered,  who  have  both  will  and 
power  to  appropriate  the  most  select  of  all  things  which 
minister  to  the  individual  development,  whether  things 
material,  things  intellectual,  or  things  spiritual.  Thus 
Mrs.  Ingraham  and  her  daughters  were  women  of  fash- 
ion, prominent  figures  at  the  state  functions  of  their 
own  state,  and  well  known  in  the  inner  circles  of 
Washington  society.  They  dressed  superlatively  well 
in   clothes   that   came    from  Paris.     At  the  same  time 

62 


Morning  63 

they  were  as  much  at  home  among  literary  as  among 
fashionable  folk,  and  Mrs.  Ingraham  at  least  was  under- 
stood to  be  devotedly  religious,  with  an  especial  pen- 
chant for  foreign  missions.  In  fine,  all  things  were 
theirs. 

Thus  it  was  an  event  for  Anna  Mallison,  in  her  dull, 
low-ceiled  upper  room,  to  open  and  read  the  note  of 
Mrs.  Senator  Ingraham  to  herself,  —  a  note  written  in 
graceful,  flowing  hand,  on  sumptuous,  ivorylike  paper, 
squarely  folded,  with  a  crest  on  the  seal,  and  the  faintest 
suggestion  of  violets  escaping  almost  before  perceived. 
The  note  was  delicately  courteous,  a  marvel  of  gracious 
tact.  Mrs.  Ingraham  had  heard  through  a  friend  that 
Miss  Mallison  was  under  appointment  as  a  missionary  to 
India,  and  had  sincerely  wished  to  meet  her.  On  Fri- 
day evening  a  dear  Christian  worker  from  Boston,  now 
her  guest,  was  to  hold  a  little  parlour  meeting  at  the 
house  for  the  help  and  encouragement  of  friends  who 
were  interested  in  a  higher  Christian  life.  Would  not 
Miss  Mallison  give  them  all  the  pleasure  of  making  one 
of  that  number  ?  Mrs.  Ingraham  would  esteem  it  a 
personal  favour;  and  if  Miss  Mallison  felt  that  she 
could  tell  the  little  company  something  of  the  experi- 
ence she  had  had  in  being  led  into  this  beautiful  life- 
work,  it  would  be  most  acceptable.  However,  this 
was  by  no  means  urged,  but  merely  suggested  and  left 
entirely  to  Miss  Mallison's  preference. 

The  man  who  had  brought  the  note  waited  on  the 
narrow  walk  below  for  Anna's  answer.  He  wore  a 
sober  but  handsome  livery. 

This  was  the  first  invitation  of  the  kind  which  Anna 
had  received,  but  she  had  now  somewhat  accustomed 
herself,   by    the   advice   of   the    Board,  to    speaking   in 


64  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

women's  missionary  meetings,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
right  to  say  yes.  Accordingly,  on  untinted  note-paper 
of  a  very  common  grade,  she  said  yes  in  a  natural  and 
simple  way,  and  made  haste  to  give  the  note  to  the 
man  at  the  door  below,  whom  she  felt  distressed  to  keep 
waiting. 

This  man  removed  his  shining  hat  in  respectful 
acknowledgment  as  he  took  the  note,  and  told  Anna 
that  Mrs.  Ingraham  had  asked  him  to  say,  having  for- 
gotten to  mention  it  in  her  note,  that  in  case  Miss 
Mallison  would  be  so  kind  as  to  come,  Mrs.  Ingraham 
would  send  the  carriage  for  her  at  half-past  seven  on 
Friday  evening. 

Anna  felt  that  she  ought  to  deprecate  so  much  atten- 
tion, and  timidly  attempted  to  do  so;  but  the  man  plainly 
was  not  further  empowered  to  treat  in  the  matter,  and, 
bowing  respectfully,  departed  with  Anna's  pallid,  long 
and  narrow  envelope  in  his  well-gloved  hand. 

When  Mally  came  in,  Anna  handed  her  Mrs.  Ingra- 
ham's  note.  Mally's  face  flushed  noticeably  as  she  read 
it.  It  was  not  easy  for  her  to  have  her  quiet  friend  thus 
preferred. 

"You'll  go,  of  course  ?  "  she  commented  rather  coldly, 
as  she  handed  it  back. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  by  all  means.  Who 
wouldn't  ?  I've  heard  lots  about  Mrs.  Ingraham  ;  she 
believes  in  a  very  high  religious  life,  you  know,  and  those 
rich  higher-life  people  live  high,  I  can  tell  you.  There'll 
be  a  supper,  depend  on  that,  and  it  will  be  a  fine  one." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  there  will  be  anything  of  that 
kind,"  interposed  Anna,  hastily. 

"  You  see ! "  cried    Mally,  with   an    air    of   superior 


Morning  6$ 

wisdom  and  wide  social  experience.  "  Oh  my  !  if  I 
should  tell  you  all  I've  heard  about  those  Ingrahams, 
you'd  be  surprised.  One  night  they  have  a  prayer- 
meeting  and  the  next  night  a  dance.  It's  all  right,  I 
suppose.      Kind  of  new,  that's  all." 

On  the  following  evening,  when  the  luxurious  Ingra- 
ham  carriage  was  driven  up  before  Mrs.  Wilson's  poor 
little  house,  many  eyes  peered  narrowly  from  neighbours' 
windows  to  catch  the  unwonted  sight ;  and  Anna,  slip- 
ping hastily  out  of  the  Wilson  door,  felt  an  access  of 
humility  in  this  exaltation  of  herself,  for  such  she  knew 
it  seemed  to  her  neighbours,  transient  though  it  was. 
She  had  suffered  a  guilty  and  apologetic  consciousness 
all  day  toward  Mally,  who  had  treated  her  with  a 
slight  coolness  and  indifference,  which  afflicted  Anna 
keenly. 

When  Anna  entered  the  hall  of  the  Ingraham  house, 
a  small,  stout  woman,  in  a  brown  dress  and  smooth  hair, 
came  out  to  greet  her,  and  took  her  hand  between  both 
her  own,  which  were  white  and  soft  and  heavily  weighted 
with  diamonds.  Anna  found  the  diamonds  confusing, 
but  she  knew  the  hands  were  kind.  Mrs.  Ingraham's 
manner,  of  sincere  kindliness  and  dignity,  put  Anna 
wholly  at  her  ease,  and  she  looked  about  her,  presently, 
at  the  subdued  luxury  and  elegance  of  her  surroundings 
with  a  frank,  childlike  pleasure.  Her  absolute  uncon- 
sciousness of  herself  saved  Anna  from  the  awkwardness 
which  her  unusual  height,  her  angular  thinness,  and  her 
unaccustomedness  to  social  contact  might  otherwise  have 
produced.  She  wore  her  "  other  dress,"  which  was  of 
plain  black  poplin,  but  quite  new,  and  not  ungraceful  in 
its  straight  untortured  lines  ;  and  as  she  entered  the  great 
drawing-room,  with  its  splendours  of  costly  art,  and  met 


66  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

the  eyes  of  many  people  who  were  watching  her  entrance, 
the  quiet  gravity  and  simplicity  of  her  bearing  were  hardly 
less  than  grace. 

Two  women,  dressed  with  elegance  and  apparently 
not  deeply  touched  with  religiousness,  commented  apart 
a  little  later,  having  met  and  spoken  in  turn  with  the 
lady  from  Boston  and  the  young  missionary  elect. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Mrs.  Ingraham's  new  saints  ?  " 
asked  one,  whose  black  dress  was  heavily  studded  with 
jet  ornaments. 

"I  like  the  young  missionary  better  than  the  Bos- 
tonian,  myself,"  was  the  reply.  The  speaker  had  red 
hair  and  an  exquisite  figure.  "  Isn't  she  curious,  though  ? " 
she  continued.  "  Manners,  you  know,  but  absolutely  no 
manner !  I  never  encountered  a  woman  before,  even  at 
her  age,  who  positively  had  none." 

"  That  is  what  ails  her,  isn't  it  ?  "  returned  her  beaded 
friend.  "You've  just  hit  it.  And  you  can  see  that 
tremendously  developed  missionary  conscience  of  hers 
in  every  line  of  her  face  and  figure,  don't  you  know  you 
can?"' 

"  Figure,  my  dear  ?  She  has  none.  I  never  saw 
such  an  utter  absence  of  the  superfluous !  " 

Here  they  both  laughed  clandestinely  behind  their 
laced  handkerchiefs. 

"  Do  you  know  how  I  should  describe  that  girl  ?  " 
challenged  the  Titian  beauty,  recovering. 

"  Cleverly,  without  doubt." 

"  I  should  call  her  a  scaffolding  over  a  conscience." 

"  That  is  really  very  good,  Evelyn.  You  can  see 
that  she  is  not  even  consciously  a  woman  yet.  She 
knows  nothing  of  life  or  of  herself  or  of  this  goodly 
frame,  the   earth,   save  what   that   New   England   con- 


Morning  67 

science  of  hers  has  interpreted  to  her.      Her  horizon   is 
as  narrow  as  her  chest." 

"  Poor  thing.  How  will  she  bear  life,  I  wonder !  " 
and  the  words  died  into  a  whisper,  for  at  that  moment 
the  little  talking,  moving  groups  of  men  and  women 
were  called  to  take  the  chairs,  which  had  been  arranged 
in  comfortable  order,  and  give  attention  to  what  was  to 
follow. 


CHAPTER   IX 

When  the  soul,  growing  clearer, 

Sees  God  no  nearer ; 

When  the  soul,  mounting  higher, 

To  God  comes  no  nigher  ; 

But  the  arch-fiend  Pride 

Mounts  at  her  side, 

And,  when  she  fain  would  soar, 

Makes  idols  to  adore, 

Changing  the  pure  emotion 

Of  her  high  devotion 

To  a  skin-deep  sense 

Of  her  own  eloquence  ; 

Strong  to  deceive,  strong  to  enslave  — 

Save,  oh  !  save. 

—  Matthew  Arnold. 

Anna  was  the  first  to  speak.  When  she  rose  and 
faced  the  little  audience,  made  up  of  fashionable  women, 
professional  men,  and  a  sprinkling  of  the  more  clearly 
defined  religious  "  workers,"  she  did  not  feel  the  coldness 
underlying  their  courteous  attention.  The  Titian  beauty 
fixed  upon  her  eyes  full  of  unconsciously  patronizing 
kindness,  and  Mrs.  Ingraham  smiled  at  her  with  sympa- 
thetic encouragement,  but  they  might  have  spared  them- 
selves the  effort.  Anna  did  not  perceive  or  consider 
these  things.  She  was  not  thinking  of  them  at  all,  nor 
of  herself. 

The  peculiar  twofold  consecration  which  rested  upon 
her  spirit  in  regard  to  her  missionary  vocation,  as  a  call 
to  fulfil  at  once  the  Divine  Will  and  the  will  of  her 
father,   was    so   profound   and   so   solemn   as  to  remove 

68 


Morning  69 

her  from  personal  and  passing  cares.  She  would  not 
herself  have  chosen  to  appear  before  these  people  and  to 
speak  to  them  of  her  supreme  interest;  but  to  do  so  had 
been  laid  upon  her  as  duty,  and  Anna's  conception  of 
duty,  by  reason  of  the  "  tremendously  developed  con- 
science "  which  the  worldly-wise  women  had  discerned 
in  her,  was  of  something  to  be  done.  She  did  this  duty 
with  the  simple  directness  of  a  soldier  under  command. 
She  stood  erect  and  motionless,  with  no  nervous  work- 
ing of  hands  or  trembling  of  lips,  and  spoke  in  a  clear, 
low  voice,  in  which  alone,  by  reason  of  a  peculiar  vibrant 
pathos,  the  profound,  undeclared  passion  of  her  nature 
was  suggested. 

Her  critics  of  the  early  evening  had  been  right  in  find- 
ing her  destitute  of  manner.  There  was  no  slightest 
evidence  as  she  spoke  of  the  orator's  instinct  —  the 
magnetism  of  kindling  eye  and  changing  expression,  of 
the  conciliation  and  subtle  flattery  of  her  hearers.  Nei- 
ther had  she  fervid  personal  raptures  nor  spiritual  tri- 
umphs to  communicate.  Of  the  picturesque  and  pathetic 
elements  of  the  situation  she  made  no  use  whatever. 
She  had  simply  an  absolute,  dominating  conviction  that 
the  heathen  were  lost ;  that  they  could  only  be  saved  by 
the  knowledge  of  Christ ;  that  this  knowledge  must  be 
conveyed  to  them  by  the  disciples  of  Christ  at  his  com- 
mand ;  and  that  she,  Anna  Mallison,  was  humbly  grateful 
that  she  was  permitted  to  devote  herself  to  a  service  so 
obviously  necessary.  Of  these  things  she  spoke;  of  the 
sacred  sense  of  living  out  her  father's  disappointed  life 
she  naturally  could  not  speak. 

It  was  not  the  speech  which  Mrs.  Ingraham  and  her 
guests  had  expected.  They  had  looked  to  have  their 
sympathies  aroused  by  a  pathetic  recital  of  sacrifice  and 


70  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

exalted  self-devotion.  Anna,  on  the  contrary,  was  un- 
conscious of  sacrifice,  and  felt  herself  simply  grateful  for 
the  privilege  of  carrying  out  her  innermost  desires. 

The  people  who  heard  her  felt  that  to  give  up  "  the 
world  "  was  a  mighty  thing.  Anna  did  not  yet  know 
what  "  the  world  "  was.  To  their  anticipation,  she  had 
been  a  figure  almost  as  romantic  and  moving  as  a  young 
novitiate  about  to  take  conventual  vows ;  to  herself,  she 
was  an  enlisted  soldier  who  has  received  marching  orders, 
and  whose  heart  exults  soberly,  since  there  are  ties  which 
may  be  broken,  and  death,  perhaps,  awaiting,  but  even 
so  exults  with  joyful  response. 

Thus,  to  most  of  those  who  heard  her,  Anna's  little 
speech  was  a  distinct  disappointment ;  the  very  loftiness 
of  her  conception  of  her  calling  made  it  featureless,  and 
robbed  it  of  adaptation  to  easy  emotional  effect.  The 
ladies  who  had  discussed  her  before  her  speech  found, 
after  it,  that  it  was,  after  all,  exactly  what  might  have 
been  expected  —  altogether  of  a  piece  with  the  austerity 
of  her  figure,  and  her  sad,  colourless  face,  no  warmth, 
no  emotion — just  the  hard  Puritan  conscience  at  its 
hardest. 

There  were  two  or  three  only  who  felt  the  spiritual 
elevation  belonging  to  the  girl  and  to  what  she  said,  and 
the  underlying  pathos  of  her  high  restraint,  as  too  great 
to  put  into  the  conventional  phrases  of  sympathy  and 
praise,  and  so  kept  silence. 

There  was  a  brief  pause  after  Anna  returned  to  her 
seat,  during  which  people  stirred  and  spoke  in  low  tones, 
and  the  beaded  lady  leaned  over  and  thanked  Anna  for 
her  "charming  little  talk."  Then  Mrs.  Westervelt,  the 
guest  from  Boston  came  forward  and  began  speaking 
with  a  winning  smile,  a  gentle,  soothing  voice,  and  an 


Morning  71 

affectionate  reference  to  "  the  dear,  sweet  young  sister." 
She  had  the  ease  and  flexibility  of  the  practised  public 
speaker;  the  winning  and  dimpled  smile  with  which  she 
won  the  company  at  the  start  was  in  frequent  use,  and 
she  made  constant  motions  with  a  pair  of  very  white 
hands.  She  was  quietly  dressed,  and  yet,  after  the 
straightness  of  Anna's  poor  best  gown,  her  attire  had 
its  own  air  of  handsome  comfort.  The  perfect  com- 
mand of  her  voice  and  of  herself  established  instantane- 
ously a  rapport  with  her  audience,  of  which  Anna,  in  her 
inexperience,  had  never  dreamed. 

Her  beloved  Mrs.  Ingraham,  she  said,  had  asked  her 
to  tell  the  dear  friends  of  some  wonderful  answers  to 
prayer  which  she  had  recently  experienced,  but  before 
doing  this  she  craved  the  privilege  of  reading  a  few 
verses  of  Scripture. 

She  then  read  certain  passages  from  the  prophecy  of 
Zechariah,  detached  from  one  another,  taken  entirely 
from  their  historic  setting,  but  fitted  together  with  some 
care.  The  speaker  explained  that  she  had,  in  her  earlier 
Christian  life,  found  some  difficulty  in  interpreting  this 
rather  obscure  passage,  but  in  the  new  life  of  complete 
sanctification,  into  which  it  had  been  her  glorious  privi- 
lege to  enter,  she  had  come  to  see  all  Scripture  by  a 
new  and  marvellous  light.  No  longer  did  she  trust  to 
the  dry  and  formal  explanations  of  scholars,  many  of 
whom,  it  was  but  too  well  known,  had  never  had  the 
deep  things  of  God  revealed  to  them,  and  who  had  been 
led  into  many  errors  by  their  pride  of  learning.  All 
that  kind  of  study  was  past  for  her,  for  the  dear  Lord 
himself  showed  her,  when  she  lifted  her  heart  to  him, 
just  what  he  meant  in  his  blessed  word.  This  had  been 
her  experience  in  regard  to  the  passage  just  read.     To 


72  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

the  natural  mind  there  were  difficulties  in  it,  but  just 
below  the  surface  was  the  great  precious  truth  which 
God  would  have  all  his  children  receive.  It  had  been 
given  her  that  when  she  came  to  the  beautiful  home  of 
Mrs.  Ingraham,  and  should  be  called  upon  to  speak  to 
these  friends,  she  must  bring  them  this  particular  pas- 
sage. But  it  had  looked  dark  to  her,  and  she  was  in 
doubt  how  to  interpret  it.  But  as  she  had  been  in  the 
cars,  coming  up  from  Boston,  she  had  said  :  "Now,  Lord, 
those  dear  friends  in  Burlington  will  want  to  know  just 
what  you  meant  by  that  sweet  portion  of  your  word, 
and  I  do  not  feel  that  I  can  tell  them  unless  you  en- 
lighten me.  What  is  it  that  is  intended  by  the  two 
staves  in  the  hand  of  the  prophet,  one  called  Beauty  and 
one  called  Bands  ?  " 

Then  the  dear  Lord  had  sweetly  spoken  in  the  secret 
place  of  her  heart,  as  distinctly  as  if  with  an  audible 
voice  :  "  My  child,  the  old  life  of  formalism,  of  cold- 
ness, and  of  worldly  pleasure  in  which  many  Christians 
live  is  the  staff  called  Bands.  The  higher  life,  the  life 
of  answered  prayer,  the  life  of  perfect  sanctification  and 
fulness  of  blessing,  is  Beauty.  Take  this  message  to 
my  dear  children   in   Burlington." 

Oh,  how  simple!  Oh,  how  sweet!  Who  would  weary 
heart  and  brain  over  the  interpretations  of  rationalistic 
German  commentators,  when  we  could  thus  have  the 
direct  interpretation  of  his  own  word  by  the  Lord  himself? 

Thus  Mrs.  Westervelt  proceeded  at  some  length  on 
this  line,  and  then,  with  tearful  eyes  and  an  added  inten- 
sity of  the  personal  element,  she  rehearsed  the  answers 
to  prayer  which  her  friend,  Mrs.  Ingraham,  had  rightly 
called  wonderful.  Thus,  in  carrying  on  the  work  of 
preaching   perfect   sanctification   in   Boston,  a  room  had 


Morning  73 

been  needed  for  meetings.  Two  or  three  of  the  little 
band  had  prayed,  and  within  a  week  they  had  had  a  most 
suitable  room  offered  them  by  a  precious  sister,  but  it  was 
unfurnished.  The  details  of  securing  the  equipment  of 
this  room  were  now  described.  Each  piece  of  furniture, 
the  speaker  declared,  had  been  directly  given  in  answer 
to  special  prayer  and  by  a  marvellous  interposition.  If 
any  natural  means  had  been  at  work  by  which  persons 
in  sympathy  with  their  efforts  were  led  to  supply  their 
obvious  needs,  these  were  not  mentioned.  Plainly  it 
was  Mrs.  Westervelt's  conception  of  a  perfect  relation 
to  God  that  the  one  sustaining  it  should  receive  constant 
miraculous  testimony  of  the  divine  favour.  The  privilege 
of  attaining  this  condition  was  presented  with  fervid 
emphasis.  It  was  the  high  and  perfect  life!  Who 
would  live  on  the  old  plane  when  this  was  what  God 
had  for  them  ?  Oh,  how  beautiful  it  was  to  trust ! 
Why  should  we  ever  doubt,  when  we  were  so  plainly 
told  that  ivbatsoever  we  ask  we  shall  receive  ? 

As  Mrs.  Westervelt  went  on,  many  of  her  hearers 
were  moved  to  tears,  and  a  continuous  response  of  sym- 
pathetic looks  and  subdued  exclamations  followed  her 
recital  of  her  surprising  experiences.  The  wealthy 
women  present  felt  that  this  was  certainly  a  fine  thing 
for  those  who  could  not  get  what  they  wanted  by  ordi- 
nary business  methods,  but  were,  perhaps,  secretly  glad 
that  they  were  not  themselves  called  upon  to  test  their 
relation  to  God  quite  so  pointedly.  The  poorer  and 
humbler  guests  wept  profusely,  thinking  how  long  they 
had  stumbled  on  in  the  dull  and  inferior  practice  of 
working  painfully  for  many  needed  things,  which  might 
all  have  been  miraculously  given  them,  if  they  had  only 
been  favourites  of  God,  like  Mrs.  Westervelt,  or,  as  she 


J 


74  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

would   have  said,  "  had  only  just  stepped  out  into  the 
fulness." 

Anna  Mallison  sat  and  listened  in  unspeakable  aston- 
ishment. 

This  was  as  absolutely  new  a  gospel  to  her  as  the 
gospel  of  Christ  to  a  disciple  of  Buddha.  It  was  her 
first  contact  with  sentimental  religion. 

The  God  of  her  father  had  been  the  immutable  and 
eternal  Creator,  the  high  and  holy  One  inhabiting  eter- 
nity, the  Judge  of  all  the  earth.  Through  the  Incarna- 
tion the  just  anger  of  this  Holy  Being  toward  sinful  men 
had  been  appeased.  But  although  in  Christ  there  had 
been  found  access  to  God  and  an  Intercessor,  never  had 
it  entered  into  the  heart  of  Samuel  Mallison  or  those 
whom  he  led  to  regard  themselves  as  occupying  a  posi- 
tion other  than  of  deepest  humility,  self-distrust,  awe, 
and  reverence. 

Mrs.  Westervelt's  phraseology  was  almost  like  a  for- 
eign tongue  to  Anna.  The  constant  use  of  terms  of 
familiar  endearment  in  speaking  of  the  Almighty  ;  the 
application  of  affectionate  and  flattering  adjectives  on  all 
sides  ;  the  sense  of  a  peculiar  and  intimate  relation  estab- 
lished between  herself  and  God  ;  and  the  free-and-easy 
conversational,  in  fact,  rather  colloquial,  style  in  which 
she  held  herself  privileged  to  communicate  with  him, 
—  were  almost  amazing  to  her.  And  beneath  all  these 
superficial  marks  of  a  new  cult,  lay  the  deeper  sense 
of  the  inherent  disparity.  Religion  to  Anna  had  been, 
it  has  been  said  earlier,  a  system  of  prohibitions,  of  self- 
denials,  of  self-abasement,  with  only  at  rare  intervals  the 
illumination  of  a  profound  sense  of  the  love  of  God. 
Here  was  a  religion  which  held  up  a  species  of  luxurious 
spiritual  enjoyment,  of  unrestrained  freedom  in  approach- 


Morning  75 

ing  God,  of  an  indubitable  sense  of  being  personally  on 
the  best  of  terms  with  him,  as  the  privilege  of  all  true 
believers. 

The  conception  of  prayer  which  Mrs.  Westervelt  had 
demonstrated  was  not  less  surprising  to  Anna.  She  knew 
that  there  were  wide  and  sweeping  scriptural  promises 
with  regard  to  prayer,  but  she  had  always  felt  a  deep 
mystery  attaching  itself  to  them.  For  herself,  she  had 
never  ventured  to  intrude  her  temporal  gratifications  and 
designs  upon  the  attention  of  her  God,  but  had  rather 
felt  a  sober  silence  regarding  these  things  to  best  befit  a 
sinful  creature  coming  before  a  holy  Creator.  Half  re- 
volting, but  half  smitten  with  compunction,  the  thought 
now  flashed  through  her  mind  that,  if  she  had  only  prayed 
after  this  new  sort,  her  father  might  have  received  the 
oranges  for  which  he  had  sorely  longed  in  the  months 
before  his  death.  This  luxury  was  not  to  be  obtained 
in  Haran,  and  had  therefore  been  patiently  foregone, 
heaven  and  Burlington  having  seemed  equally  inaccessi- 
ble at  the  time. 

Mrs.  Westervelt  sat  down,  and  the  meeting  broke  up, 
a  swarm  of  enthusiastic,  tearful  women  rushing  to  sur- 
round her  and  pour  out  their  effusive  appreciation  of  her 
wonderful  address.  Anna  stood  bewildered  and  alone, 
doubting  within  herself.  Had  it  all  been  the  highest 
consecration,  as  it  undoubtedly  desired  to  be  ?  or  had  it 
been  the  highest  presumption,  the  old  temptation  of 
spiritual  pride,  assuming  a  new  guise  ? 

Two  clergymen  of  the  city,  who  had  been  attentive 
listeners  during  the  whole  evening,  not  being  moved  to 
pour  out  their  admiration  upon  either  speaker,  quietly 
strayed  across  the  hall  into  Mr.  Ingraham's  library. 
The  senator  himself  was  absent. 


y6  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  Well,  Nichols,"  said  Dr.  Harvey,  the  older  man, 
who  had  a  shrewd,  kindly,  smooth-shaven  face,  "  what 
do  you  think  of  that  for  Old  Testament  exegesis  ?  " 

"  It  was  pretty  stiff  to  have  the  responsibility  for  it 
2;iven  to  the  Lord,"  returned  his  friend.  "  I  almost  felt 
like  interrupting  her  to  say  that,  with  all  due  respect,  the 
Lord  never  told  her  any  such  thing,  her  interpretation 
being  monstrously  untrue." 

"  It  was  awful,  simply  awful,"  said  the  other,  with  slow 
emphasis.  "Such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven 
might  make  men,  as  well  as  angels,  weep.  And  then 
her  familiarity  with  the  Lord,  Nichols,  —  why,  man,  she 
positively  patronized  the  Almighty  !  " 

"  It  is  true,  and  yet,  do  you  know,  Doctor,  that  woman 
has  some  extraordinary  elements  for  success  in  such 
work  ?  " 

"  If  she  hadn't,  she  would  be  of  no  importance,  my 
dear  fellow.  She  has  a  fine  homiletic  instinct.  That  is 
just  where  the  danger  lies.  But,  after  all,  she  represents 
only  one  danger  —  there  are  others.  She  is  simply  the 
modern  mystic  —  a  kind  of  latter-dav,  diluted  Madame 
Guyon.  Too  much  of  the  thing  is  a  trifle  nauseous, 
perhaps,  but  it  represents  the  revolt  of  devout  souls,  in 
every  age,  from  formalism,  and  is  inevitably  an  excess, 
like  all  revolt.  Doubtless  there  will  be  such  revolt, 
world  without  end,  and  it  will  have  its  uses." 

"  It  was  fairly  pathetic  to  see  how  eagerly  those 
women  rushed  forward  to  receive  her;  evidently  that's 
the  message  they  are  pining  for.  They  don't  go  for  us 
that  way,  Doctor." 

"  No;  and  they  didn't  for  that  first  speaker,  Mallison's 
daughter.  I  knew  him.  Poor  man,  what  a  mystic  he 
might  have  made,  if  he  had  let  himself  go  !      This  girl  is 


Morning  77 

much  like  him  —  the  old  New  England  type;  religion 
with  all  colour  and  sentiment  clean  purged  out  of  it. 
Cold  as  ice,  chaste  as  snow,  the  antipodes  of  the 
Guyon-Westervelt  danger.  Talk  of  holiness,  —  poor 
Mallison, —  he  was  the  holiest  man  I  ever  knew,  and  in 
this  life  the  least  rewarded,"  and  the  old  clergyman 
shook  his  head  with  a  mournful  smile. 

14 1  fancied,  when  I  heard  her  speak,  although  I  had 
no  idea  who  she  was,  that  this  daughter  of  his  had  not 
exactly  revelled  in  the  luxury  of  religion." 

"  No ;  but  I  tell  you,  Nichols,  she  is  none  the  worse 
for  that,  at  her  age.  There  is  a  hardihood,  an  uncon- 
scious, sturdy  fortitude  in  that  earlier  type,  which  we 
mightily  need  in  the  world  to-day.  To  me,  that  girl 
was  positively  beautiful,  because — notice  what  I  say, 
Nichols  —  she  is  absolutely  true." 

"  Very  likely." 

"  Yes ;  but  when  you  have  thought  it  over,  tell  me, 
some  day,  how  many  men  and  women  you  know  of 
whom  you  can  say  that.  If  you  know  one,  you  will  do 
well." 

Dr.  Harvey,  as  he  said  these  words,  rose  to  leave  the 
library,  but  stopped  and  stood,  as  there  appeared  at  that 
moment  at  the  hall  door  the  figure  of  a  man  who  was 
apparently  passing  through  the  hall.  So  silent  and  so 
sudden  was  his  coming,  and  so  singular  his  aspect,  that 
the  younger  of  the  two  men,  perceiving  him,  started  vio- 
lently in  involuntary  surprise,  and  was  conscious  of  a 
disagreeable  sensation  along  the  course  of  his  veins. 

This  man,  who  had  approached  the  door  with  noise- 
less steps,  might  have  been  young,  or  might  have  been 
old.  Fie  was  of  unusual  height,  with  narrow  shoulders, 
short  body,  and  disproportionate  length  of  limb.      His 


78  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

face,  an  elongated  oval,  was  of  as  smooth  surface  as  that 
of  a  woman,  and  of  the  shape  and  pale  even  colour  of  an 
egg.  The  enormous  forehead,  the  eyes,  small  and  nar- 
row, set  wide  apart  and  obliquely,  the  flattened  nose,  the 
straight,  wide,  almost  lipless  mouth,  combined  with  an 
expression  of  crafty  complacence  to  give  the  man  a  sin- 
gularly alien  semblance.  As  he  stood,  he  smiled  slowly, 
a  smile  which  emphasized  both  the  craftiness  and  the 
complacency  of  his  expression,  and  remarked  in  a  high, 
thin  voice  :  — 

"Just  going,  Doctor?  Make  yourself  at  home  here, 
that's  all  right." 

He  carried  a  rather  large,  morocco-bound  note-book 
in  one  hand,  and  a  silver  pencil-case  in  the  other.  His 
hands  were  extremely  delicate  and  white,  with  sinuous, 
flexible  fingers,  of  such  phenomenal  length  as  to  suggest 
an  extra,  simian  joint.  They  conveyed  to  the  young 
clergyman  a  sense  of  expressing  the  same  craft  as  the 
face,  and  a  yet  more  palpable  cruelty.  The  unpleasant 
impression  became  more  pronounced,  for,  seeing  the 
hands,  young  Nichols  involuntarily  shivered. 

Probably  this  fact  was  not  noticed  by  the  newcomer, 
but,  having  thus  spoken  and  smiling  one  more  chilling 
smile,  he  passed  on  to  the  other  end  of  the  hall. 

Eyes  rather  than  voice  asked  in  astonishment,  "  Who 
is  that  ?  " 

"  Oliver  Ingraham,  the  senator's  son,"  was  the  elder 
clergyman's  reply,  as  they  left  the  library  together,  "  the 
son  of  his  first  wife."  Dr.  Harvey  was  Mrs.  Ingraham's 
pastor. 

"  Incredible  !  "  cried  the  other,  under  his  breath.  "  I 
never  saw  him,  never  heard  of  his  existence." 

The  other  shook  his  head  with  gravely  troubled  look. 


Morning  79 

"  He  is  only  here  when  it  becomes  impossible  to  keep 

him  elsewhere." 

"  Is  he  insane  ?  imbecile  ?  what  is  he  ?  " 

"  Not  the  first,  not  the  second.      I  cannot  answer  the 

third  question." 


CHAPTER   X 

She  sitteth  in  a  silence  of  her  own  ; 

Behind  her,  on  the  ground,  a  red  rose  lies ; 

Her  thinking  brow  is  bent,  nor  doth  arise 

Her  gaze  from  that  shut  book  whose  word  unknown 

Her  firm  hands  hide  from  her ;   there  all  alone 

She  sitteth  in  thought  trouble,  maidenwise. 

—  R.   W.   Gilder. 

An  October  morning,  and  breakfast-time  in  the  In- 
graham  household.  Great  doors  stood  open  into  the 
dining  room,  where  the  vast  round  table  could  be  seen 
with  its  glittering  array  of  silver,  and  the  grace  and 
colour  of  exquisite  flowers. 

A  slender  girl,  as  graceful  and  charming  in  her  simple 
morning  dress  as  the  flowers  she  had  just  placed  on  the 
table,  stood  in  the  doorway,  waiting,  a  shade  of  impa- 
tience on  her  face.  Behind  her,  at  one  of  the  dining- 
room  windows,  stood  Oliver  Ingraham,  her  half-brother. 
Mrs.  Ingraham,  with  her  other  daughters,  one  older,  one 
younger,  were  in  the  adjoining  library.  Outside,  in  the 
hall,  a  man  paced  up  and  down  with  impatience  which 
he  did  not  attempt  to  conceal.  This  was  Mr.  Ingra- 
ham himself,  a  man  of  good  height,  fine,  erect  figure, 
and  youthful  energy  of  motion  and  bearing.  His  hair 
was  grey,  as  also  his  heavy  mustache  and  imperial ; 
his  eyes  grey  also,  keen,  clear,  but  inclined  to  wander 
with  disconcerting  swiftness ;  he  had  a  high,  beaklike 
nose,  and  a  fine,  carefully  kept  skin,  in  which  a  network 
of  dark  red  veins  betrayed  the  high  liver.      He  was  at 

So 


Morning  81 

once  peremptory  and  gracious,  military  and  courtly,  a 
man  of  the  world  and  of  affairs  on  a  large  scale. 

With  watch  in  hand  he  entered  the  library  and  ap- 
proached his  wife. 

"  Cornelia,"  he  said,  smiling  with  good-tempered  sar- 
casm, "  does  it  strike  you  that  the  show  is  a  little  late  in 
opening  ?  I  dislike  to  mention  it,  but  it  is  already  ten 
minutes  past  eight.  I  am  not  familiar  with  the  social 
customs  of  Abyssinia,  nor  even  of  Macedonia,  but  in 
the  United  States  it  is  considered  good  form  for  guests, 
albeit  lions,  to  come  to  breakfast  on  time.  Even  the 
Hyrcan  tiger,  I  understand,  is  usually  prompt  in  his 
attendance  on  that  function  —  " 

"  Papa  !  "  cried  his  youngest  daughter,  Louise,  "  you 
are  perfectly  dreadful." 

Mrs.  Ingraham  looked  up  into  her  husband's  face 
with  her  mild,  conciliating  smile. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  Justin,"  she  said  softly,  "  but  I  sup- 
pose the  poor  dear  creatures  are  very  tired  after  the 
meeting  last  night,  and  their  journey,  and  all  —  " 

There  was  a  slight  noise  on  the  stairs  as  she  spoke, 
and  Mr.  Ingraham  faced  about  with  military  precision  to 
receive  in  succession  a  number  of  ladies,  who  filed  into 
the  room,  and  were  warmly  greeted  and  promptly  pre- 
sented to  him  by  his  wife.  Two  were  visitors  from 
New  York,  substantial  "  Board  women " ;  other  two, 
returned  missionaries  from  Japan ;  the  last  to  enter  was 
a  shy,  brown  little  person  with  soft  dark  eyes,  a  native 
Hindu,  who  could  only  communicate  with  her  host  by 
a  gentle,  pleading  smile.  All  were  in  attendance  on 
a  great  missionary  conference  held  in  Burlington  that 
week,  drawing  its  supporters  from  all  New  England 
and  New  York. 

G 


82  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  Shall  we  go  to  breakfast,  Cornelia  ?  "  Mr.  Ingraham 
asked,  having  infused  sudden  courage  into  the  trembling 
breast  of  the  little  native  by  his  gallant  attention.  "  Are 
we  all  here  ?  " 

"Why,  no,  papa,"  interposed  his  youngest  daughter; 
tt  we  must  wait  for  Mr.  Burgess." 

"  Mr.  Burgess  ?  "  repeated  her  father,  in  a  musing 
tone.  "  I  do  not  recall  that  I  have  met  him.  Is  the 
gentleman  an  invalid  ?  " 

"  At  least  the  gentleman  is  here,  papa,"  murmured 
Louise,  directing  his  attention  to  a  young  man  who  at 
the  moment  entered  the  room,  and  approached  Mrs. 
Ingraham  with  a  few  words  of  courteous  apology. 

Meeting  him,  Mr.  Ingraham  saw  a  slender,  youthful 
figure,  somewhat  below  the  average  of  masculine  height, 
a  man  of  delicate  physique,  perhaps  five  and  twenty 
years  old,  with  a  serious,  sensitive  face,  and  earnest  blue 
eyes  looking  out  through  glasses ;  a  young  man  who 
presented  himself  with  quiet  self-possession,  and  bore 
the  unmistakable  marks  of  good  breeding. 

As  they  took  their  places  around  the  breakfast  table, 
Keith  Burgess,  for  this  was  the  young  man's  name, 
found  himself  seated  opposite  Oliver,  with  whom  he 
was  not  drawn  to  converse,  and  between  the  second 
Miss  Ingraham  and  the  little  Aroona-bia.  Conversation 
with  the  latter  being  necessarily  of  an  extremely  limited 
nature,  her  gentle  lisping  of  "yes"  and  "thank  you" 
being  somewhat  indiscriminate,  the  guest  found  himself 
shortly  occupied  exclusively  with  his  very  pretty  neigh- 
bour. 

"  You  know,  Mr.  Burgess,"  she  was  presently  saying, 
"  I  almost  feel  that  I  know  you  already." 

"  How  so  ?  "   asked  Keith,  simply.      It  was  plain  that, 


Morning  83 

although  accustomed  to  the  refinements  of  life,  this  was 
not  a  man  accomplished  in  social  subtleties.  There 
was,  in  fact,  a  curiously  unworldly  expression  in  the 
young  fellow's  eyes,  and  somewhat  of  thoughtful  intro- 
spection. 

"  Why,  you  see  mamma  and  some  of  her  friends  who 
heard  you  speak  last  spring  have  told  us  so  much  about 
you." 

Keith  bowed  slightly,  without  reply. 

"  And  you  can't  think,  Mr.  Burgess,  how  delighted 
we  are  to  have  you  come  to  Burlington.  We  were  so 
afraid  you  would  leave  for  the  East  before  we  could 
hear  you,  and  I  assure  you  that  would  have  been  a  great 
disappointment.  I  think  you  sail'  in  the  spring,  do  you 
not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  May,  as  soon  as  I  graduate." 

"  And  it  is  for  India  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  It  is  not  fully  determined,  but  that 
would  be  my  choice,  and  I  believe  the  Board  incline 
that  way." 

The  pretty  Miss  Ingraham,  whose  name  was  Ger- 
trude, sighed  a  very  little. 

"  It  is  all  so  wonderful,  so  almost  incredible,  to  me 
that  any  one  young  and  like  other  people,  don't  you 
know  ?  can  really  go,"  she  said  gently.  "  There  are 
people  to  whom  it  seems  perfectly  natural.  Mamma 
has  a  new  protegee  who  is  to  go  out  as  a  missionary 
teacher  a  year  from  this  fall.  She  is  very  young,  only 
twenty-one,  and  we  all  think  she  is  lovely ;  but  still,  for 
her  it  seems  really  the  only  thing  to  be  expected.  She 
has  the  genuine  missionary  air  already,  and  you  would 
know  she  could  not  be  anything  else,  somehow." 

Keith  looked  civilly,  but  not  keenly,  interested. 


84  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  I  wonder  if  it  is  any  one  I  have  heard  of,"  he  re- 
marked.    "  It  is  our  Board  that  sends  her  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Her  name  is  Mallison,  Anna  Mallison.  Her 
father  was  a  country  minister  up  in  the  mountainous 
part  of  the  state.  Poor  thing !  She  will  find  India 
quite  a  change  after  Vermont  winters,  I  should  think." 

"  An  improvement,  perhaps,"  said  Keith,  smiling. 
"  But  really,  Miss  Ingraham,  going  back  to  what  you 
said  a  moment  ago,  why  should  it  seem  so  incredible  for 
a  man  who  has  devoted  himself  to  the  service  of  God, 
truly  and  unreservedly,  to  be  willing  to  go  where  what 
little  he  can  do  is  most  needed  ?  Many  men  feo  to  for- 
eign countries  and  remain  the  better  part  of  their  lives 
for  business  purposes  :  men  in  the  navy  ;  Englishmen, 
of  course,  of  social  and  political  ambitions,  by  hundreds. 
Do  you  ever  feel  that  there  is  anything  extraordinary  or 
superhuman  in  what  they  do  ?  " 

Gertrude  Ingraham  was  looking  at  the  young  man 
with  almost  devout  attention. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  shaking  her  head  with  pretty 
humility,  seeing  which  way  he  led. 

"  Then  why,"  pursued  Keith  Burgess,  leaning  over  to 
look  steadily  in  her  face  with  his  earnest  eyes,  and  low- 
ering his  voice  to  a  deeper  emphasis,  "  why  do  you 
wonder  that  now  and  then  a  man  should  be  willing  to 
do  for  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  and  the  salvation  of  souls 
what  a  hundred  men  do  as  a  matter  of  course  for  their 
own  selfish  ambition  and  the  gaining  of  money  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  down,  the  brightness  of  her  face  soft- 
ened by  serious  feeling. 

"  The  only  wonder,  Miss  Ingraham,  is  that  so  few 
do  it.  For  my  own  part  I  do  not  see  how  a  fellow 
who  goes  into  the  ministry,  as  things  are  now,  can  do 


Morning  85 

anything  else,"  and  Keith  turned  back  to  his  neglected 
breakfast.  Thereafter  he  was  drawn  into  conversation, 
across  the  mute  languor  of  the  little  Hindu,  with  his 
host,  who  had  questions  to  ask  regarding  Fulham,  which 
had  been  his  college. 

At  four  o'clock  that  afternoon,  Keith  Burgess,  sitting 
in  a  large  congregation  in  Dr.  Harvey's  stately  church, 
listening  with  consciously  declining  interest  to  a  lono- 
statistical  report  which  was  being  read  from  the  pulpit, 
felt  himself  touched  on  the  shoulder.  Looking  up  he 
saw  the  Rev.  Frank  Nichols,  pastor  of  a  mission  church 
in  the  city.  He  had  known  him  well  in  college,  a  clear- 
eyed,  well  set-up  young  cleric.  Nichols  invited  him  by 
a  word  and  look  to  follow  him,  and  together  they  quietly 
left  the  assembly. 

When  they  had  reached  the  street  and  the  crisp 
autumn  air,  Keith  shook  himself  with  a  motion  of 
relief. 

"  Is  there  anything  more  tiresome  than  such  a  succes- 
sion of  meetings  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Shall  we  walk  ? 
I  am  in  a  hurry  to  climb  one  of  these  hills." 

"We  must  do  it  later,"  returned  Nichols;  "but  if 
you  are  not  too  tired  I  want  to  take  you  down  this 
street  and  on  a  block  or  two  to  my  church.  The 
women  are  having  a  meeting  there  this  afternoon." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember ;  but  will  it  be  in  order  for 
us  to  intrude  ?  " 

"Yes,  that  will  be  all  right.  The  brethren  drop  in 
quietly  now  and  then,  and  are  welcome.  You  needn't 
stay  long,  for  you  are  tired,  I  know  by  your  face ;  but  I 
tell  you  what  it  is,  Burgess,  I  want  you  to  hear  Anna 
Mallison." 

Anna  Mallison  !  again  that  name  which  he  had  heard 


86  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

in  the  morning.  It  began  to  have  a  strangely  musical 
quality  to  Keith's  ears. 

"  I  have  heard  her  name.  She  is  under  appointment, 
I  believe.     A  good  speaker  ?  " 

"  No,  not  a  particularly  good  speaker,  but,  as  Dr. 
Harvey  once  said  to  me,  an  absolutely  true  nature.  She 
is  a  young  woman  of  strong  personality,  but  singularly 
destitute  of  the  desire  to  impress  herself,  and  with  a  cer- 
tain touch  of  the  unconsciously  heroic  about  her  which 
you  feel  but  cannot  describe.  I  have  never  met  a  girl 
of  precisely  her  type  before,  myself,  and  I  am  curious  to 
know  what  you  will  think  of  her." 

Entering  the  small,  unpretentious  church,  Nichols  and 
his  friend  sat  down  in  the  first  row  of  seats,  next  to  the 
central  aisle.  The  room  was  nearly  full ;  several  women 
were  upon  the  platform,  from  which  the  pulpit  had  been 
removed.  One  woman  was  speaking  in  a  high-keyed, 
plaintive  voice. 

It  was  not  a  stable  or  quiet  audience ;  some  were 
leaving  their  seats,  others  coming  in,  many  turning 
their  heads  to  catch  glimpses  of  expected  friends.  Be- 
hind the  young  men  came  in  two  girls  who  remained 
standing  close  beside  them  in  the  aisle  for  a  little  space. 
One  of  these  girls  had  pretty,  fair  hair  and  peachy  cheeks; 
she  was  dressed  in  deep  blue  with  touches  of  gilt  cord 
and  buttons,  giving  a  kind  of  coquettish  military  jaunti- 
ness  to  her  appearance.  She  wore  a  small  round  hat,  of 
dark  blue,  which  set  off  her  pretty  hair  charmingly.  Her 
manner  was  full  of  quick,  eager  animation ;  she  smiled 
much  and  whispered  to  her  companion  continually.  This 
companion  stood  motionless  and  unresponsive  to  the  fre- 
quent appeals  made  to  her,  a  quiet  face  and  figure,  a  dress 
and  bonnet  of  plain  and  unadorned  black,  ill  suited  to 


Morning  87 

her  youth  ;  but  it  was  her  face  and  figure  rather  than 
the  other  to  which  Keith  Burgess  found  his  attention 
riveted.  He  knew  intuitively,  before  Nichols  told  him, 
that  this  was  Anna  Mallison  ;  but  without  this  knowledge 
he  felt  that  he  must  still  have  kept  his  eyes  upon  her 
face.  The  repose  of  it,  the  purity  and  elevation  of  the 
look,  the  serene,  serious  sweetness,  were  what  he  had 
seen  in  the  faces  of  angels  men  have  dreamed  of  rather 
than  of  women  they  have  loved.  But  that  she  was 
after  all  a  woman,  with  a  woman's  sensitiveness  and 
impressibility,  he  fancied  was  manifest  when,  having 
.perhaps  felt  his  look  resting  thus  intently  on  her  face, 
Anna  turned  and  their  eyes  met  in  an  instant's  direct, 
uninterrupted  gaze,  whereupon  a  deep  flush  rose  and 
spread  over  the  clear  brown  pallor  of  her  face,  and  she 
turned,  and  bent  to  speak  to  her  friend,  as  if  to  cover  a 
slight  confusion. 

The  friend  was  Mally  Loveland,  and  she  was  finding 
her  position  a  particularly  satisfactory  one  at  the  moment, 
being  aware  that  Mr.  Nichols  was  so  placed  as  to  take 
in  the  best  points  of  her  new  fall  costume  in  a  side  view. 
It  was  for  him,  not  for  Anna,  that  she  had  been  using  so 
much  of  nervous  energy  in  the  last  few  minutes. 

A  lady  who  had  left  the  platform  for  the  purpose  now 
came  down  the  aisle,  and,  taking  Anna  Mallison  by  the 
hand  with  a  word  of  welcome,  conducted  her  to  the  front 
of  the  church.  Mally,  thus  left  alone,  fluttered  into 'a 
place  made  for  her,  seeming  to  discover  Mr.  Nichols  as 
she  turned,  and  smiling  surprise  and  pleasure  upon  him. 

Just  before  Anna  began  to  address  the  gathering,  while 
a  hymn  was  sung,  Keith  Burgess  quietly  made  his  way 
to  a  seat  near  the  front  of  the  church,  at  the  side  of  the 
platform.      He  had  excused  himself  to  Nichols,  who  had 


88  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

then  asked  and  obtained  permission  to  sit  beside  Mally, 
an  incident  productive  of  a  vast  amount  of  conscious  and 
fluttering  delight  on  the  part  of  that  young  lady. 

The  austerity  of  Anna  Mallison's  religious  life  had, 
under  the  influence  of  Mrs.  Westervelt  and  her  disciple, 
Mrs.  Ingraham,  relaxed  within  a  few  months  to  a  marked 
degree.  New  conceptions  of  a  relation  of  joyful  assur- 
ance, of  conscious  acceptance  with  God,  had  risen  within 
her,  with  the  perception  that  religion  was  not  exclusively 
prohibition,  and  conscience  its  only  energy.  Something 
of  warmth  and  brightness  had  been  infused  into  her  chill, 
colourless,  outward  life,  furthermore,  by  the  intercourse, 
with  the  Ingrahams  which  had  followed  her  first  visit. 
She  was  still  in  a  manner  ice-bound  in  her  interior  life 
and  in  her  capacity  for  expression,  but  the  ice  was 
beginning  to  yield  and  here  and  there  to  break  up  a 
little. 

Thus,  in  the  manner  with  which  she  spoke  on  this 
occasion,  there  was  something  of  gentleness,  and  a  less 
uncompromising  self-restraint  than  when  she  had  first 
spoken  before  an  audience.  She  was  still  noticeably 
reserved,  still  innocent  of  the  orator's  arts,  or  of  con- 
scious seeking  to  produce  an  effect ;  she  still  delivered 
herself  of  her  simple  message  as  if  it  were  a  duty  to  be 
discharged  rather  than  an  opportunity  to  be  grasped. 
But  through  the  coldness  of  all  this  neutrality  there 
pierced  now  and  then  a  ray  of  the  radiant  purity  and 
loftiness  of  the  girl's  inner  nature,  and  this  time  those 
who  heard  her  did  not  pity  or  patronize  her  in  their 
thoughts. 

Keith  Burgess  watched  her  from  the  place  he  had 
chosen.  Her  tall,  meagre  figure  in  its  nunlike  dress  was 
sharply  outlined  against  a  palely  tinted  window  opposite, 


Morning  89 

through  which  the  October  sun  shone.  She  stood  with- 
out support  of  table  or  desk,  her  hands  falling  straight  at 
her  sides,  and  looked  directly  at  the  people  she  addressed, 
fearless,  since  burdened  with  the  sense  of  immortal 
destinies,  not  with  a  consciousness  of  herself.  Keith 
noted  the  hand  which  fell  against  the  straight  black  folds 
of  her  dress  ;  its  fine  shape  and  delicate  texture  alone 
expressed  her  ladyhood.  She  could  not  have  been  called 
pretty,  but  her  face  thus  seen  in  profile  was  almost  beau- 
tiful, the  hollowness  of  the  cheeks  and  the  stringent 
thinness  of  all  the  contours  being  less  obvious. 

But  Keith  Burgess  was  not  occupied  with  Anna's  face 
and  figure  to  any  serious  degree.  He  knew  instinctively 
that  she  was  of  good  birth  and  breeding ;  he  saw  that, 
though  severe  and  angular  in  person  and  manner,  she 
was  womanly,  noble,  refined.  He  divined,  as  no  one 
could  have  failed  to  divine,  the  essential  truth  and  purity 
of  her  nature.  From  her  simple,  unfeigned  utterance 
he  perceived  the  high  earnestness  and  consecration  with 
which  she  was  entering  upon  missionary  labour.  Perceiv- 
ing all  those  things,  the  young  man  looked  and  listened 
with  a  sudden,  momentous  question  taking  swift  shape 
in  his  mind. 

He  remained  until  the  close  of  the  meeting;  and  met 
Anna,  introducing  himself,  as  he  preferred  doing.  She 
received  his  few  expressions  of  satisfaction  in  hearing  her 
with  scant  response,  and  apparently  with  neither  sur- 
prise or  gratification.  He  did  not  like  her  the  less  for 
that. 

The  Ingrahams  found  Keith  sober  and  preoccupied  at 
dinner  that  night,  but,  as  he  was  to  be  chief  speaker  at 
the  evening  session  of  the  convention,  they  thought  this 
natural  and  in  order.     He  was  liked  and  was  treated  with 


go  A  Woman   of  Yesterday- 

especial  consideration  by  them  all,  and  even  Mr.  Ingra- 
ham  did  him  the  honour  of  going  to  the  church  to  hear 
him  speak.  He  had  no  sympathy  with  his  wife's  pen- 
chant for  missions,  but  he  thought  Burgess  was  "  a 
nice  little  fellow,"  and  he  wanted  to  see  what  kind  of 
a  speech  he  could  make. 

The  different  members  of  the  family  and  their  guests 
came  home  one  after  another  late  in  the  evening,  and, 
as  they  met,  exchanged  enthusiastic  expressions  concern- 
ing the  eloquence  of  Keith  Burgess.  Mrs.  Ingraham  and 
the  Board  ladies  thought  the  dear  young  man  had  a 
wonderful  gift;  Aroona-bia  smiled  tenderly  in  assent; 
the  girls  said  he  was  simply  perfect ;  and  Mr.  Ingraham 
admitted  that,  when  he  had  worked  off  some  of  his 
"  sophomoric  effervescence,"  he  might  make  a  good  deal 
of  an  orator,  and  added,  under  his  breath,  it  was  nothing 
less  than  a  crime  to  send  a  delicate,  talented  boy  like  that 
to  make  food  for  those  barbarians,  whose  souls  weren't 
worth  the  sacrifice,  even  if  he  could  save  them,  which  he 
couldn't. 

"  Very  true,  dear,"  rejoined  his  wife ;  "  no  man  can 
save  another's  soul ;  he  can  only  lead  him  to  the  dear 
Lord's  feet." 

The  senator  bit  short  a  sharp  reply,  and  just  then 
Keith  himself  appeared,  looking  pale  and  exhausted, 
deprecating  wearily  the  praise  they  were  eager  to  bestow 
upon  him,  and  begging  to  be  excused  if  he  withdrew  at 
once  to  his  room. 

As  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  was  lost  in  the  hall 
above,  Mrs.  Ingraham  said  :  — 

"  I  am  sorry  Mr.  Burgess  was  so  tired.  I  invited 
Anna  Mallison  to  come  here  for  the  night,  and  I  wanted 
him  to  meet  her.      Mrs.  Churchill  has  asked  the  oppor- 


Morning  91 

tunity  for  a  little  talk  with  Anna  in  the  morning,  and  it 
will  be  convenient  for  her  to  be  here.  It  is  so  far  to  her 
rooms,  you  know." 

"  I  should  think  the  house  was  full  already,  mamma," 
remarked  Gertrude  Ingraham.  "Where  can  we  put 
her  ?  " 

"Oh,  she  will  not  mind  going  up  to  the  south  room 
in  the  third  story,  my  dear.  I  told  Jane  to  have  it  in 
order." 

Just  then  Miss  Ingraham  came  into  the  house  and 
Anna  Mallison  was  with  her.    ■ 


CHAPTER   XI 

The  Moving  Finger  writes ;  and  having  writ, 
Moves  on  :   nor  all  your  Piety  nor  Wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line, 
Nor  all  your  Tears  wash  out  a  Word  of  it. 

—  The  Rubaiyat. 

In  a  few  moments  after  he  had  reached  his  room 
Keith  Burgess  heard  a  knock  at  his  door.  Opening  it, 
he  found  a  neat,  white-capped  maid  who  bore  a  tray ; 
entering  demurely,  she  placed  it  upon  a  small  table,  re- 
marking that  Mrs.  Ingraham  thought  he  would  need 
refreshment.  The  tray  held  an  exquisite  china  service 
for  one  person,  a  pot  of  chocolate,  and  delicate  rolls  and 
cakes. 

"  Miss  Gertrude  said  I  was  to  light  your  fire,"  the 
maid  said,  proceeding  to  remove  the  fender  and  strike  a 
match  for  the  purpose. 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Keith,  walking  to  the  other  side 
of  the  room.  The  night  air  was  sharp,  and  he  liked  the 
notion. 

A  moment  later  the  maid  withdrew,  with  the  noiseless, 
unobtrusive  step  and  movement  of  the  well-trained  ser- 
vant, and  Keith,  when  he  turned,  found  the  room  al- 
ready enlivened  by  the  firelight.  The  table  was  drawn 
to  a  cosey  corner  on  the  hearth-rug,  a  deep  cushioned 
easy-chair  beside  it.  The  fragrant  steam  of  the  hot 
chocolate  rose  invitingly,  and  as  Keith  threw  himself 
with  a  long  sigh  of  comfort  into  the  chair,  he  detected 
another  fragrance,  and  perceived,  lying  upon  the  plate, 

92 


Morning  93 

a  single  rose,  and  around  the  stem  a  slip  of  white  paper. 
On  the  paper,  Keith  found  a  few  words  written  :  "  You 
must  let  me  thank  you  for  the  great  uplift  you  have 
given  me  to-night.      Gertrude  Ingraham." 

The  young  man,  rising,  put  the  flower  in  a  clean 
glass  vase  on  his  mantle,  and  the  note  in  the  inner  com- 
partment of  his  writing-case,  touching  both  with  careful 
gentleness.  Then,  returning  to  the  fireside,  he  fell  to 
drinking  and  eating  with  cordial  satisfaction  in  all  this 
creature  comfort;  but  as  he  ate  and  drank  and  grew 
warm,  he  was  thinking  steadily. 

He  was  not  minded  to  flatter  himself  unduly,  but 
what  was  he  justified  in  inferring  from  Gertrude's  action 
and  from  other  small  signs  which  he  had  seen  ?  Simply, 
that  she  liked  him  ;  honoured  him  above  his  due  ;  prob- 
ably idealized  him  ;  possibly,  if  he  sought  her  deeper 
regard,  might  respond. 

He  liked  her  thoroughly.  What  man  would  not  ? 
She  was  very  pretty,  and  her  beauty  was  enhanced  by 
faultless  dress,  —  no  small  thing  in  itself.  Her  manners 
were  charming,  with  the  charm  of  a  sweet  nature,  aided 
by  the  polish  of  high  social  intercourse;  she  had  the 
thousand  little  nameless,  flattering  graces  of  the  woman, 
who,  old  or  young,  instinctively  knows  how  to  put  a 
man  at  his  best.  Furthermore,  Keith  was  not  insensible 
to  the  background  against  which  this  girl  was  set.  The 
aristocratic,  powerful  family  connection,  the  magnificent 
home,  the  wealth  and  grace  and  ease  of  life,  the  fine 
manners  and  habits  of  thought  and  conduct  belonging  to 
the  Ingrahams,  were  not  matters  of  naught  to  him.  He 
liked  all  these  things.  What  was  more,  he  knew  per- 
fectly that  there  was  no  element  of  temptation  in  them 
to  lead  him  from  his  chosen  path  of  altruism  ;  Mrs.  In- 


94  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

graham's  well-known  missionary  ardour  and  Gertrude's 
delicate  sympathy  were  guarantee  for  that.  They  un- 
derstood perfectly  that  within  six  months  he  would  de- 
part for  an  exile  of  perhaps  a  lifetime,  in  an  alien  and 
uncongenial  land,  where  he  would  work  under  condi- 
tions of  life  repulsive  and  depressing  to  the  last  degree. 
Nevertheless,  he  believed  without  vanity  that  Gertrude 
Ingraham,  knowing  all,  foreseeing  all,  could  care  for  him. 

Keith  Burgess  had  come,  suddenly  perhaps,  but  defi- 
nitely, to  the  conclusion  that  he  wanted  a  wife  ;  and, 
furthermore,  that  he  wanted  a  wife  who  would  go  out 
with  him  to  India  six  months  hence.  Consequently,  as 
he  sat  by  the  fire  which  Gertrude  Ingraham  had  lighted 
for  him,  he  pursued  this  line  of  thought  with  significant 
persistence. 

A  curious  condition,  however,  attended  his  reflections. 
While  he  sat  by  Gertrude's  fire,  tasted  her  dainty  food, 
inhaled  the  fragrance  of  the  rose  she  had  sent  him,  and 
thought  of  her  in  all  her  beauty  and  grace,  he  did  not  see 
her.  Instead  of  her  figure,  there  stood  constantly  before 
the  eye  of  his  mind  the  tall,  austere  form  of  Anna  Mal- 
lison,  in  the  unsoftened  simplicity  of  her  manner  and 
apparel,  and  in  her  passionless,  unresponding  repose. 
He  thought  of  Gertrude  Ingraham,  but  he  saw  Anna 
Mallison. 

She  had  travelled  the  way  that  he  had  come.  Out- 
wardly there  might  be  coldness  between  them,  but  in- 
wardly there  must  be  the  profoundest  basis  of  sympathy. 
The  same  master  conviction  had  won  and  held  their  two 
souls.  He  could  not  have  known  her  better,  it  seemed 
to  him,  had  he  known  her  all  his  life.  The  things 
which  would  have  repelled  another  man  were  what 
drew  him  all  the  more  to  her.      It  was  not  the  passion 


Morning  95 

of  love  which  had  so  suddenly  awakened  within  him, 
but  a  mighty  longing  for  what  Keith  Burgess  had  thus 
far  gone  through  life  without,  —  a  true  and  satisfying 
sympathy  with  his  religious  life  and  its  aspirations.  A 
girl  like  Gertrude  Ingraham  might  accept  his  religion 
and  the  shape  it  took,  but  it  would  be  because  she  cared 
for  him ;  a  girl  like  Anna  Mallison  might,  perhaps, 
accept  him,  but  it  would  be  because  of  his  religion  and 
the  shape  it  had  taken.  At  this  crisis  of  his  life  the 
enthusiasm  for  his  calling  ruled  him  as  no  human  love 
could,  and  by  it  all  the  issues  of  life  must  stand  or  fall. 

Hours  passed.  The  fire  died  out  to  a  core  of  dull 
red  embers,  the  single  rose  drooped  on  its  stem,  the  tray 
of  food  stood  despoiled  and  indifferent ;  the  words  of  the 
small  white  paper  were  forgotten,  and  Keith  Burgess, 
throwing  himself  upon  his  knees,  prayed  thus  to  God  :  — 

"  Oh,  my  Lord,  if  thou  wilt  grant  me  so  great  a  good 
as  to  win  her  for  my  wife,  if  thou  wilt  bless  me  in  seek- 
ing her,  if  it  is  according  to  thy  will  that  our  lives  should 
be  united,  and  that  together  we  should  carry  the  cross 
of  Christ  to  the  lost,  grant  me,  O  Lord,  a  sign.  But  if 
it  be  not  thy  will,  make  this,  too,  known  to  me.  Thy 
will  I  seek,  O  my  God,  in  this,  in  all  things." 

Then,  being  wearied  in  brain  and  body,  he  slept  heav- 
ily until  morning. 

When,  just  before  the  breakfast  hour,  Keith  stepped 
into  the  hall,  he  paused  a  moment,  hearing  a  step  on  the 
stairs  above  him  leading  from  the  third  story  rooms. 
He  advanced  slowly  to  the  head  of  the  next  staircase, 
and  not  until  he  reached  it  did  he  see  who  it  was  de- 
scending from  above.  Then,  lifting  his  eyes,  he  saw 
Anna   Mallison. 

Her  presence  in  this  house,  at  this  hour,  so  surpris- 


g6  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

ing,  so  unlooked-for,  so  almost  unnatural,  since  her 
home  was  elsewhere  in  the  city  —  what  did  it  mean? 
It  was  the  sign  he  had  craved.  How  else  could  he 
interpret  it  ? 

The  blood  rushed  in  sudden  flow  to  his  heart,  leaving 
his  face  colourless. 

Anna,  not  being  surprised  to  meet  him  thus,  was 
simply  saying  "  Good  morning,"  and  passing  down  the 
stairs.      Keith  put  out  his  hand  and  stopped  her  going. 

So  marvellous  did  her  presence  seem  to  him  that  he 
forthwith  spoke  out  with  unconventional  directness  the 
thought  in  his  mind. 

"I  think  you  do  not  know  just  what  it  means  that 
you  are  here,  in  this  house,  this  morning." 

Mally  Loveland  would  have  flashed  some  pert  re- 
joinder to  a  comment  like  this;  Gertrude  Ingraham,  in 
a  similar  situation,  would  have  looked  at  Keith  Burgess 
with  pretty  wonder  and  smiling  question. 

Anna  Mallison,  seeing  the  pallor  and  emotion  of  his 
face,  and  having  become  wonted  to  the  supernatural 
interpretation  of  the  small  events  of  human  life,  only 
said  gravely  and  without  obvious  surprise:  — 

"  I  do  not,  perhaps,  know  all  that  it  means.  I  trust 
it  means  no  trouble  to  any  one  —  to  you." 

"  No,"  he  answered,  a  slight  tremor  in  his  voice ;  "  I 
cannot  believe  that  it  does.  You  came  under  the  divine 
leading,  no  matter  how  or  why  you  seemed  to  yourself 
to  come.  You  came  as  a  sign.  I  had  asked  a  sign  of 
God.  I  did  not  dream  of  your  presence  in  this  house. 
Seeing  you  now,  so  unexpectedly,  how  can  I  doubt  any 
further  ?      It  is  the  will  of  God." 

Anna  looked  straight  into  Keith's  face,  a  deep  shadow 
of  perplexity  on  her  own,  but  she  did  not  speak. 


Morning  97 

He  smiled  slightly. 

"You  cannot  understand,  and  no  wonder.  I  am 
speaking  to  you  as  I  have  no  right  to  —  in  the  dark. 
It  is  for  you  to  say  whether,  by  and  by,  before  I  go 
to-morrow  morning,  I  may  explain  my  meaning  and  try 
to  make  clear  to  you  what  is  so  clear  to  me." 

It  was  Anna  now  who  grew  perturbed,  for  the  signifi- 
cance of  his  words,  although  veiled,  was  manifest.  She 
turned  and  descended  the  stairs  without  speaking,  Keith 
Burgess  following  her  in  silence.  She  did  not  herself 
understand  her  own  sharp  recoil  and  dismay,  but  all  the 
maiden  instinct  of  defence  was  in  alarm  within  her. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  they  both  paused  for  an 
instant,  and  Keith  asked  in  a  low  voice  :  — 

"  Will  you  walk  with  me  on  these  hills  somewhere, 
alone,  this  afternoon  at  four  o'clock  ?  " 

A  sudden  great  sense  of  revolt  arose  in  the  girl's 
heart,  and  broke  in  a  faint  sob  upon  her  lips.  She  did 
not  want  to  walk  on  the  hills  with  him  —  with  any  man. 
She  did  not  want  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say.  But  he 
had  said  it  was  the  will  of  God,  their  thus  meeting.  He 
had  sought  that  awful,  irrefragable  will,  and  she  had  acted, 
it  seemed,  in  obedience  to  it  in  coming  to  this  house. 
What  was  she,  to  be  found  fighting  against  God  ? 

She  felt  herself  constrained  to  say  yes. 


CHAPTER   XII 

...  I  made  answer  to  my  friend  :  "  Of  a  surety  I  have  now  set  my  feet 
on  that  point  of  life  beyond  the  which  he  must  not  pass  who  would  return. ' ' 

—  Tbe  New  Life,  Dante. 

"  I  ask  you,  Anna  Mallison,  to  go  out  with  me  to 
my  work  in  India  in  May,  as  my  wife." 

Thus  Keith  Burgess,  having  recounted  the  story  of 
the  lights  and  leadings  of  the  past  twenty-four  hours. 

They  were  standing,  and  faced  one  another  in  a  yel- 
low beech  wood  where  the  sky  above  their  heads  was 
shut  out  by  the  sun-lightened  paving  of  the  clustering 
leaves. 

As  she  came  down  the  woodland  path  Anna  had 
broken  off  a  long  stem  of  goldenrod,  and  she  held  it 
hung  like  an  inverted  torch  at  her  side,  like  a  sad  vestal 
virgin  at  some  ancient  funeral  rites. 

"Forgive  me  for  bringing  this  to  you  so  swiftly.  I 
know  it  seems  hasty,  perhaps  unreasonably  so.  But  to 
me  no  time  or  acquaintance,  however  extended,  could 
change  my  wish.  And,  you  see,  my  time  is  so  very 
short,  now  !  " 

Keith  Burgess  looked  with  his  whole  soul's  sincerity 
into  Anna's  face,  and  the  integrity  of  his  purpose,  of 
his  whole  nature,  could  not  be  mistaken. 

"It  is  not  the  suddenness,  I  think,"  she  replied  slowly, 
with  unconscious  coldness  ;  "  like  you,  I  feel  that  the 
great  facts  of  God's  will  and  providence  may  be  made 
clear  to  us  instantly. " 

Then  she  hesitated  and  paused. 


Morning  99 

"  Please  go  on,"  the  young  man  said  gently. 

"  It  is  only,"  she  answered,  with  a  pathos  which  a 
woman  would  have  understood,  "  that  I  did  not  want  to 
be  married  at  all.  I  had  never  thought  of  it  as  being  a 
thing  I  needed  to  be  troubled  about." 

Keith  Burgess  smiled  faintly  at  her  frankness,  which 
was  not  cruel  of  intention,  he  knew,  but  his  smile  touched 
Anna's  heart. 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  trouble  you,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  Please  do  not  misunderstand  me.  It  was  not  the 
way  to  express  it  —  my  words  sounded  unkind,  I  am 
afraid.  I  should  learn  better  ways  of  gentler  speaking. 
Other  women  seem  to  have  them  naturally." 

"  I  like  it  that  you  are  honest,  even  if  it  hurts,"  said 
Keith,  steadily. 

"  I  did  not  mean  that  you  trouble  me  —  not  exactly. 
Only  that  my  life  looked  so  plain  and  clear  to  me,  and 
this  is  so  surprising  —  it  seems  to  change  things  so." 

"  Only  by  a  little  outward  difference.  I  should  not 
dare  to  ask  you  to  go  as  my  wife  if  I  did  not  believe 
that  you  could  work  more  effectively  so,  perhaps,"  he 
added  timidly,  "  even  more  happily,  if  I  had  strength 
and  protection  to  give  you,  and  a  home  of  some  sort, 
however  poor,  in  that  strange  land." 

Something  in  the  quality  of  his  voice  brought  swift 
tears  to  Anna's  eyes.  It  was  so  new  to  have  some  one 
thinking  and  caring  for  her  ease  and  happiness.  It  had 
so  long  been  her  part  to  do  this  for  others,  to  forget 
herself,  and  take  it  quite  for  granted  that  others  should 
forget  her. 

He  saw  his  advantage,  and  sought  to  follow  it. 

"  The  thought  of  marriage  is  unwelcome  to  you,"  he 
said  earnestly,  "because  it  is  foreign  and   unfamiliar.      I 


ioo  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

think  you  are  very  different  from  most  girls  of  your  age, 
and  have  lived  a  different  inward  life,  higher  and  purer, 
and  free  from  personal  aims  in  a  wonderful  way.  But 
even  so,  regarding  marriage  I  believe  you  are  wrong. 
You  think  of  it  as  an  interruption,  almost  as  a  decline 
from  the  life  you  had  meant  to  live.  On  the  contrary, 
God  has  made  it  to  be  the  very  best  life,  the  normal  and 
fulfilled  life,  in  which  each  is  at  the  strongest  and  best. 
Where  my  work  for  God  and  men  might  fall  utterly  to 
the  ground,  you,  by  your  purer  insight,  might  help  me 
to  make  it  availing;  and  perhaps  the  poor  service  I  could 
give  might  help  a  little  to  carry  forward  your  work." 

Anna  lifted  her  hand  in  a  slight,  expressive  gesture. 

"  Look  at  the  whole  thing  a  moment,"  cried  Keith, 
with  sudden  boldness,  "  as  if  you  were  not  you  and  I 
not  I.  Here  are  two  persons,  man  and  woman,  of  the 
same  age  within  two  or  three  years,  led  of  the  same 
Spirit  to  the  same  purpose  and  consecration  and  calling ; 
both  ready  to  go  out  to  the  same  unknown  land,  lonely 
and  apart,  and  there  to  work  as  best  they  may  far  from 
any  human  being  they  have  ever  seen  or  known.  Such 
were  we.  And  now  God,  looking  upon  us,  sees  that 
each  needs  the  other,  and  in  his  good  providence  he 
leads  us  here  to  this  place.  I  see  you,  and  instantly  my 
heart  goes  out  to  you  as  the  companion,  the  other  self, 
I  need.  My  soul  recognizes  in  you  its  counterpart. 
God,  in  answer  to  my  prayer  that  he  will  make  known 
his  will,  suddenly,  most  unexpectedly,  as  I  start  on  the 
new  day,  brings  you  before  me  before  I  have  spoken  or 
met  with  man  or  woman,  as  the  first,  best  light  of  morn- 
ing. What  does  God  mean  ?  Ask  yourself,  Anna  Mal- 
lison,  ask  him.  For  my  own  part,  I  cannot  doubt  his 
will.      I    have    no   right   to   thrust   my  conviction   upon 


Morning  101 

you  forcibly,  but  to  me  this  is  as  clearly  the  call  of  God 
as  my  call  to  the  foreign  field  or  to  the  divine  service." 

They  were  still  standing  face  to  face,  and  while  Keith 
spoke  Anna  looked  into  his  eyes  with  the  serious  direct- 
ness of  one  listening  to  an  argument  of  weighty  but 
impersonal  import.  With  all  his  conviction  and  earnest- 
ness, he  was  as  passionless  as  she,  save  for  his  religious 
passion.      A  strange  wooing  ! 

Anna  turned  now  and  walked  on  along  the  mossy  path 
in  silence. 

"  Take  time  to  consider,  —  all  the  time  you  need.  Do 
not  try  to  decide  now,"  said  Keith,  walking  at  her  side. 
She  made  no  reply ;  in  fact,  she  did  not  realize  that  he 
spoke.     Her  mind  was  working  in  intense  concentration. 

Keith  Burgess  alone  she  would  have  turned  away 
without  a  moment's  doubt,  but  he  had,  or  seemed  to 
have,  a  mighty  Ally.  She  did  not  fear  him  in  rejecting 
nor  desire  him  in  accepting,  but  to  reject  God  !  —  that 
she  feared ;  to  accept  God  in  every  manifestation  of 
his  will  was  her  deepest  desire. 

But  what  if  Keith  were  wrong  in  his  conviction  ? 
Her  pale  face  flushed  with  a  flame  of  indignation  as  she 
thought  of  it,  that  a  man,  whom  she  had  never  met  or 
known,  sought  or  desired,  could  suddenly  invade  the 
very  citadel  of  her  will,  and  summon  her  to  surrender 
her  very  life  into  his  keeping,  in  the  great  Name,  when, 
perhaps,  he  was  self-deceived,  was  coming  in  his  own 
name,  to  do  his  own  will.  She  looked  aside  at  Keith's 
face  as  he  walked  by  her,  in  sudden  distrust.  It  wore 
no  flush  of  passion,  and  in  the  blue  eyes  was  the  light 
less  of  earthly  love  than  of  heavenly.  It  was  a  look 
pure  and  high,  such  as  a  man  might  fitly  wear  as  he 
approached    the  sacrament.      A  sudden    awe    fell   upon 


102  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

Anna,  as  if  she  were  looking  upon  one  who  had  talked 
with  God,  and  her  eyes  fell,  the  lashes  weighted  with 
heavy,  unshed  tears. 

"  He  is  better  than  I,"  she  thought;  "  a  man  like  this 
could  not  lead  me  wrong." 

White  and  cold,  and  with  a  strange  sinking  at  her 
heart,  she  turned  to  him  soon,  and  stopped  where  she 
stood. 

He  looked  into  her  face,  his  own  suffused  with  emo- 
tion. She  held  out  both  her  hands,  the  goldenrod, 
which  she  had  held  until  now,  falling  to  the  ground. 
Keith  Burgess  took  them  in  both  his,  and  Anna  felt 
that  his   hands  trembled  far  more  than   did  her  own. 

"  I  believe  you  were  right,"  she  said  simply.  "  It  is 
the  will  of  God." 

He  kissed  her  then  on  her  brow  and  on  her  lips,  the 
salutation  disturbing  her  no  more  than  if  he  had  been 
her  brother. 

"  Please,  will  you  let  me  go  home  now,  alone,  Mr. 
Burgess  ?  "   she  asked  humbly,  like  a  child. 

Keith  was  disappointed,  but  consented  at  once. 

"  Only,"  he  said,  "  you  should  not  call  me  Mr.  Bur- 
gess.    My  name  for  you  is  Keith." 

"  Not  yet,"  she  answered.  "  In  outward  things  and 
ways  remember,  please,  that  we  are  perfect  strangers.  It 
is  only  in  the  spirit  that  we  have  met." 

Then  she  left  him,  and  Keith  Burgess  stood  watching 
the  tall,  dark  figure  swiftly  receding  down  the  wood  walk 
in  the  yellow  light.  His  look  was  wistful.  He  longed 
to  go  after  her,  but  he  forebore. 

Anna  hastened  down  into  the  city  streets  and  to  the 
hospital  where  she  was  on  duty  every  afternoon.  There 
was  plenty  of  work  awaiting  her,  and  not  for  a  moment 


Morning  103 

was  she  free  or  left  alone  to  think  her  own  thoughts. 
Six  o'clock  found  her  back  in  her  own  rooms  at  Mrs. 
Wilson's.  They  were  low  and  dull  after  the  fine  spa- 
ciousness of  the  Ingraham  house,  but  that  was  a  matter 
of  little  note  to  Anna. 

Mally  was  there  with  a  friend  whom  she  had  brought 
home  with  her  to  tea.  Anna  washed  the  dishes  while 
these  two  diligently  revised  the  trimming  of  their  hats 
which  in  some  particular,  wholly  imperceptible  to  Anna's 
untrained  eye,  fell  below  the  standard  of  latest  fashion. 

It  was  not  until  the  girls  left  the  house,  at  seven 
o'clock,  and  all  her  duties,  trivial  and  homely  and  weary- 
ing, were  done,  that  Anna,  alone  at  last,  could  yield  to 
the  overpowering  weariness  which  was  upon  her. 

She  carried  the  lamp,  whose  flame  seemed  to  pierce 
her  aching  eyes,  into  the  next  room,  and  then,  lying  on 
the  hard  haircloth  sofa  with  her  head  propped  on  one 
hand,  she  closed  her  eyes,  thankful  at  last  to  be  where 
she  could  let  a  few  tears  fall  with  no  one  to  wonder  or 
question.  The  quiet  patience  inbred  in  the  constitution 
of  the  girl's  nature  controlled  her  mood  ;  there  was  no 
struggle  of  revolt  from  the  vow  she  had  taken  and  the 
future  to  which  she  had  pledged  herself,  but  an  unspeak- 
able homesickness  had  taken  possession  of  her.  She 
liked  and  reverenced  Keith  Burgess,  no  doubt  she  would 
love  him  very  truly  by  and  by,  but  just  now  he  seemed 
to  have  turned  her  out  of  her  own  life  and  to  have  taken 
control  where  she  had  hitherto,  with  God,  been  supreme. 
It  all  gave  her  the  same  feeling  she  had  suffered  when, 
after  her  father's  death,  they  had  been  obliged  to  give 
up  their  home  for  the  coming  in  of  a  new  leader  for  the 
little  flock  her  father  had  led  so  long.  She  knew  there 
was  no  real  analogy  between  the  two  experiences,  she 


104  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

could  reason  clearly  agaiRst  herself,  but  she  could  not 
control  the  piteous  heart-sickness  which  settled  down 
upon  her  in  the  dim  room,  in  the  silent,  empty  house. 

Many  women  have  suffered  a  reaction  like  this  in  the 
hour  of  committing  themselves,  from  the  fear  that  this  is 
not  the  supreme  love,  the  love  of  the  life-time;  the  mis- 
giving lest  this  man  is  not,  after  all,  the  man  for  whom 
they  can  forsake  all  others  and  unto  whom  they  can 
cleave  with  a  perfect  heart  to  the  end.  These  were  not, 
however,  the  considerations  which  weighed  upon  Anna 
Mallison.  It  was,  as  she  had  herself  expressed  it,  very 
simply,  that  she  had  not  thought  about  marriage  at  all. 
She  had  no  ideal  of  manhood  in  her  mind  from  this 
point  of  view.  It  was  not  that  she  craved  the  love  of  a 
stronger  man  or  a  man  abler  or  better  in  any  way  than 
Keith  Burgess  ;  she  merely  preferred  no  man.  She  had 
not  awakened  to  love  ;  the  deeper  forces  of  her  woman's 
nature  were  sleeping  still. 

But  there  was  not  for  an  instant,  in  Anna's  mind,  the 
thought  of  withdrawing  from  her  plighted  word  to  Keith. 
She  believed  that  he  had  come  to  her,  as  he  believed, 
under  the  divine  light  and  leading.  She  turned  to  walk 
in  the  new  path  marked  out  for  her,  faithfully  and  obe- 
diently, but  pausing  a  moment  to  look  with  aching  eyes 
and  heart  down  the  dear,  familiar  path  which  she  was 
leaving.  But  Anna  was  too  tired  to  think  long,  or  even 
to  feel,  and  so  fell  asleep  shortly,  in  the  stiff,  angular 
position  in  which  she  lay,  the  tears  undried  upon  her 
cheeks.  The  sound  of  the  knocker  on  the  house  door, 
hard,  metallic,  but  without  resonance,  suddenly  roused 
her,  and  she  sprang  up  hastily,  remembering  that  Mrs. 
Wilson  had  gone  to  the  great  missionary  meeting,  and 
that  she  was  alone  in  the  house. 


Morning  105 

She  took  her  lamp  and  went  down  the  narrow  stairs 
into  the  bit  of  entry.  When  she  opened  the  door, 
Keith  Burgess  himself  was  standing  there. 

He  looked  at  her,  smiling  half  mischievously,  and  she 
felt  a  sudden  warmth  at  her  heart  as  she  met  the  sweet, 
true  look  of  his  eyes. 

"  Didn't  you  ever  expect  to  see  me  again  ?  "  he  said, 
and  laughed  as  he  stepped  into  the  house  and  closed  the 
door. 

She  smiled,  too,  and  held  out  her  hand.  He  took  it 
and  kissed  it  in  a  gallant  way,  which  she  found  wholly 
wonderful,  being  quite  unused  to  such  feats,  and  unread 
in  romances. 

"  It  will  be  a  bore,  won't  it,"  he  went  on  quaintly, 
"  this  having  a  man  around  to  bother  you  ?  Perhaps  I 
ought  not  to  have  come,  but,  you  see,  I  go  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  I  thought  you  might  have  something  to  say  to 
me  before  I  left." 

"  Yes,"  Anna  said  ;  adding  naively,  "  but  where  shall 
I  take  you  ?  It  is  so  new.  I  have  not  had  a  call  like 
this  before."  She  felt  shy  about  inviting  him  up  to  her 
own  sitting  room. 

"  In  there  ?  "  he  queried,  pointing  to  the  door  of  Mrs. 
Wilson's  drear  little  closed  parlour. 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  Anna,  "Mrs.  Wilson  never  lets  us  go 
in  there.  It  is  too  fine  for  anything  but  funerals  and  — " 
she  was  about  to  say  weddings,  but  broke  off  confused, 
and  they  both  laughed,  looking  at  each  other  like  two 
children  with  their  innocent  eyes. 

"  I  can  sit  here,"  said  Keith,  pointing,  as  he  spoke,  to 
the  steep,  narrow  stairs.  There  was  a  red  and  green 
striped  carpet  on  them,  and  a  strip  of  grey  linen  over  for 
protection.     The  little  entry  was  bare  of  furniture,  save 


106  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

for  the  small  uncovered  table  on  which  Anna  had  placed 
her  lamp. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  "  I  will  borrow  a  chair  from 
Mrs.  Wilson's  kitchen  ;  "  and  she  forthwith  brought  out 
a  clean  wooden  chair  painted  a  light  yellow,  and  placed 
it  at  the  side  of  the  stairway  for  herself,  there  being  no 
room  at  the  foot. 

"  I  was  going  to  say,"  remarked  Keith,  musingly,  as 
Anna  sat  down,  "  that  these  stairs  are  rather  wide,  and 
if  Mrs.  Wilson  is  particular  about  lending  her  chairs,  I 
could  make  room  for  you  here,"  and  he  looked  at  her 
soberly  between  the  stair-rails.  Anna  shook  her  head,  but 
suddenly  there  came  over  them  both  a  sense  of  the  ludi- 
crousness  of  the  little  scene  they  would  have  presented, 
had  any  one  been  able  to  look  in  upon  them,  and  they 
laughed  again,  as  Anna  had  not  laughed  since  she  was  a 
child,  something  of  exhaustion  aiding  to  break  down  her 
wonted  restraint. 

"  It  is  so  funny,  oh,  it  is  so  funny  !  "  she  cried,  "  to 
see  you  looking  out  between  those  bars  as  if  you  were 
a  lion  in  a  cage.  Just  think  of  the  people  at  the  meet- 
ing !  What  if  they  were  to  see  us  two.  Wouldn't  they 
think  it  was  dreadful  ?  " 

"  Would  you  mind  putting  your  hand  into  the 
cage  ?  "  asked  Keith.  "  I  assure  you  it  is  perfectly  safe. 
This  is  not  the  man-eating  variety." 

"You  are  sure?"  Anna  asked,  with  a  woman's  instinc- 
tive coquetry  swiftly  developed,  but  giving  her  hand. 

"  It  is  such  a  beautiful  hand,"  he  said,  laying  it  very 
gently  on  his  own  right  hand,  which  he  had  placed  on 
the  stair  beside  him,  and  at  this,  the  first  word  of  flattery 
which  any  man  had  ever  spoken  to  her  face,  Anna  blushed 
and  grew  positively  pretty,  as  he  looked  at  her. 


Morning  107 

All  this  laughing  and  light  nonsense  between  them, 
did  for  her  what  a  season  of  prayer  and  serious  discus- 
sion of  their  situation  could  not  have  accomplished. 
Anna  felt,  with  a  sudden  sense  of  comfort  and  release, 
i.hat  this  new  relation  was  not  exclusively  a  solemn 
religious  ordinance,  but  a  dear  human  companionship, 
the  joyousness  of  simple,  upright  hearts,  and  the  sym- 
pathy of  kindred  minds. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

Now  die  the  dream,  or  come  the  wife, 

The  past  is  not  in  vain, 
For  wholly  as  it  was  your  life 
Can  never  be  again, 

My  dear, 
Can  never  be  again. 

—  W.  E.  Henley. 

At  Anna's  earnest  request,  Keith  Burgess  consented 
that  their  engagement  should  be  announced  to  no  one 
save  his  mother  until  spring.  Mally  observed  the 
regularity  of  Keith's  weekly  letters,  and  attempted  to 
tease  Anna  into  acknowledging  that  there  was  "  some- 
thing in  it  "  ;  but  Anna's  dignity,  which  on  occasion  had 
its  effect  even  upon  Mally's  vivacious  self-confidence, 
ended  this  line  of  attack  in  short  order.  A  few  weeks 
after  Keith  left  Burlington  Anna  received  the  following 
note :  — 

My  Dear  Miss  Mallison  :  My  son,  Keith  Bur- 
gess, has  confided  in  me  the  fact  that  you  have 
consented  to  enter  into  an  understanding  with  him 
which,  if  Providence  should  favour,  will  doubtless  event- 
ually terminate  in  marriage.  Your  name  has  been 
mentioned  to  me  by  members  of  our  Woman's  For- 
eign Missionary  Board,  and  I  am  led  to  believe  that 
my  dear  son  has  been  graciously  led  of  the  Lord  in 
his  choice  of  a  companion  in  the  path  of  duty  upon 
which  he  has  entered.      That  my  son  is  a  godly  young 

108 


Morning  109 

man  and  of  an  amiable  disposition,  I  need  hardly  take 
this  occasion  to  tell  you.  Similarity  of  views  and  of 
religious  experience  would  seem  to  furnish  a  satisfactory 
basis  for  a  union  productive  of  mutual  good  and  the 
glory  of  God. 

Trusting  for  further  acquaintance  before  you  depart 
for  foreign  shores, 

I  am  yours  very  truly, 

Sarah  Keith  Burgess. 

If  this  letter  were  stiff"  or  cold,  Anna,  not  looking  for 
warmth  and  freedom,  did  not  miss  them.  She  knew  that 
Keith  was  the  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  a  widow. 
She  took  it  for  granted  that  they  were  poor  like  herself; 
she  had  not  known  many  people  who  were  other  than 
poor,  none  who  were  in  the  ranks  of  missionary  candi- 
dates. Such  a  thing  would  have  seemed  singularly  incon- 
gruous because  unfamiliar.  She  had  a  distinct  picture  of 
Mrs.  Burgess,  whom  she  knew  to  be  in  delicate  health,  as  a 
woman  of  sweet,  saintly  face  and  subdued  manner,  living 
in  a  small  white  cottage  in  an  obscure  street  of  Fulham, 
perhaps  not  unlike  the  Burlington  street  in  which  Mrs. 
Wilson's  house  stood.  She  fancied  her  living  alone  — 
indeed,  Keith  had  told  her  that  this  was  so  —  in  a  plain 
and  humble  fashion,  a  quiet,  devoted,  Christian  life,  a 
type  with  which  her  experience  both  in  Haran  and  Bur- 
lington church  circles  had  made  her  familiar.  There 
were  some  geraniums  in  the  little  sitting  room  window, 
she  thought,  and  it  was  a  sunny  room  with  braided  mats 
over  the  carpet,  and  a  comfortable  cat  asleep  on  a  patch- 
work cushion  near  the  stove.  There  would  be  a  small 
stand  beside  Mrs.  Burgess's  rocking-chair  with  a  large 
Bible  and  a  volume  or  two  of  Barnes's  "  Notes,"  a  spec- 


iio  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

taclc  case  and  a  box  of  cough  medicine  ;  perhaps  it  was  a 
bottle,  Anna  was  not  sure,  but  she  inclined  to  the  hoar- 
hound  drops,  and  almost  smelt  them  when  she  thought 
of  the  room.  She  imagined  the  dear  old  lady  carefully 
and  prayerfully  inditing  the  epistle  to  herself,  and  thought 
it  most  kind  of  her,  and  wrote  thus  to  Keith. 

The  winter  passed  for  Anna  in  hard  and  unintermitting 
work.  Mally  allowed  herself  lighter  labours,  and,  hav- 
ing raised  her  eyes  with  admiration  to  the  Rev.  Frank 
Nichols,  now  shook  herself  free  as  far  as  she  could  con- 
veniently from  her  more  frivolous  Burlington  friends,  and 
renewed  her  earlier  interest  in  religion  with  extraordinary 
zeal.  She  felt  that  Dr.  Harvey's  church  was  too  worldly 
for  her  ideals,  and  that  Mr.  Nichols's  beautiful  work 
among  the  humbler  classes  offered  far  more  opportunity 
for  religious  devotion.  Her  regular  attendance  at  all  the 
meetings  of  the  church  was  a  great  satisfaction  to  Anna, 
who  looked  on  with  characteristic  blindness,  glad  to  see 
her  friend  returning  to  a  more  consistent  walk  and 
conversation. 

The  letters  which  passed  between  Anna  and  Keith 
would  hardly  have  been  called  love-letters.  They  dealt 
with  religious  experience  and  views  of  "divine  truth," 
for  the  most  part.  Not  even  at  start  or  finish  of  any 
letter  was  place  found  for  the  endearing  trifling  common 
to  lovers.  This  correspondence  might  all  have  been 
published,  omitting  nothing  —  without  dashes  or  asterisks, 
even  in  that  day  when  it  was  thought  unseemly  to  reveal 
the  innermost  secrets  of  hearts,  and  to  speak  upon  the 
housetops  that  which  had  been  whispered  in  the  ear. 
There  were  few  personal  allusions  on  the  part  of  either, 
beyond  Keith's  occasional  mention  of  his  health  being 
below  the  mark.     At  Christmas    Keith    sent    Anna    a 


Morning  1 1 1 

volume  of  "Sacred    Poetry";    on  the  fly-leaf   he  had 
written  :  — 

Anna  Mallison, 

From  her  sincere  friend  and  well-wisher, 
Keith  Burgess. 

He  had  abstained  from  warmer  terms  on  account  of 
Anna's  wish  to  withhold  the  knowledge  of  their  engage- 
ment for  the  present. 

Poor  Anna,  having  nothing  wherewith  to  provide  a 
gift  for  her  lover,  the  small  savings  for  her  education 
being  now  nearly  exhausted,  made  shift  to  sew  together 
sheets  of  note-paper,  on  which  she  copied  her  favourite 
passages  from  Paley  and  Butler  and  various  theologians. 
This  humble  offering  was  sent  to  Keith,  who  was  highly 
gratified,  and  treasured  the  little  gift  affectionately. 

For  two  weeks  following  Christmas  Anna  received  no 
letter,  but  she  was  not  greatly  surprised,  as  she  knew 
Keith  was  to  start  early  in  January  for  a  tour  of  various 
New  England  towns,  where  he  was  expected  to  present 
the  cause  of  Foreign  Missions.  He  was  now  completing 
his  last  year  in  the  theological  seminary  near  Boston,  and 
his  unusual  gifts  in  public  speech  induced  the  faculty  to 
send  him  out  frequently  on  such  missions. 

At  half-past  eight  of  a  zero  morning  in  the  second 
week  of  January,  Anna,  with  her  threadbare  black  jacket 
buttoned  tight  to  her  throat,  her  arm  full  of  books,  was 
leaving  Mrs.  Wilson's  door  on  her  way  to  school,  when 
she  saw  a  boy  stop  in  front  of  the  house  with  a  telegram 
in  his  hand.  Taking  it,  she  found,  greatly  amazed,  that 
it  was  for  herself — the  first  telegram  she  had  ever 
received. 

The  boy,  accustomed  to  see  people  receive  his  mes- 


ii2  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

sages  with  changing  colour  and  nervous  hands,  glanced  at 
her  coolly,  then  turned  and  went  his  way  back,  plunging 
his  hands  into  his  pockets  against  the  biting  cold.  In 
the  little  entry  Anna  opened  the  despatch.  It  was 
dated  Portland,  Maine,  and  signed  by  Keith  Burgess. 
It  told  her  that  he  was  very  ill ;  that  he  was  alone,  it 
being  impossible  for  his  mother  to  go  to  him.  It  asked 
her  to  come  to  him  at  once. 

Anna's  mind,  in  the  half-hour  which  followed,  worked 
with  intense  rapidity.  She  found  from  a  newspaper  that 
by  a  ten  o'clock  train  she  could  reach  Boston  that  even- 
ing, and  she  decided  to  take  that  train,  and  go  on  to  Port- 
land by  night.  She  wrote  a  note  to  Alally,  in  which 
she  told  her  of  her  engagement  to  Keith  and  of  what 
had  occurred.  She  packed  a  satchel  with  what  was 
necessary,  and  last  of  all  drew  out  of  her  little  square 
writing-desk,  where  she  kept  it  carefully  locked  away,  an 
envelope  containing  all  the  ready  money  she  possessed. 
She  found  that  there  remained  exactly  twelve  dollars. 
This,  to  Anna,  was  a  large  amount  of  money,  and, 
although  her  heart  sank  a  little  at  the  thought  of  spend- 
ing so  much  at  once,  the  prospect  for  the  weeks  to  come 
before  she  could  draw  upon  her  mother  again  being 
blank  enough,  she  knew  that  this  was  justified  by  the 
emergency. 

Soon  after  nine  Anna  again  departed  from  the  house, 
the  books  replaced  by  the  satchel,  the  worn  and  faded 
black  gown  and  jacket  unchanged,  starting  alone  and 
unsped  upon  her  long  and  anxious  journey. 

She  went  first  to  the  Ingrahams,  walking  the  long  mile 
in  the  sharp  cold,  carrying  her  heavy  bag  with  a  benumbed 
hand,  since  the  reckless  extravagance  of  a  carriage  might 
not  for  a  moment  be  considered. 


Morning  113 

Mrs.  Ingraham  was  ill  and  could  not  see  Anna,  but 
her  daughter  Gertrude  came  into  the  parlour  and  greeted 
her  cordially.  The  issues  of  the  hour  were  too  strong 
upon  Anna  to  permit  any  trace  of  embarrassment  or 
personal  feeling  in  her  manner,  although  she  felt  that  it 
would  have  been  easier  to  say  what  she  felt  must  be  said, 
to  Mrs.  Ingraham. 

"  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  tell  your  mother,"  she 
began,  "that  I  could  not  go  away  on  this  journey,  which 
I  must  take,  without  explaining  it  to  her  ?  She  has  been 
so  very  kind.  We  did  not  mean  to  announce  it  quite 
so  soon,  but  Mr.  Burgess,  whom  I  met  here  in  the  fall, 
and  I  are  engaged  to  be  married."  Anna  was  too  pre- 
occupied to  perceive  the  flush  which  slowly  and  steadily 
rose  in  Gertrude  Ingraham's  face. 

"  We  expect  to  go  out  together  in  May,"  Anna  pro- 
ceeded. "  Mr.  Burgess  has  not  been  strong  for  several 
months,  perhaps  he  is  never  very  strong;  but  this  morn- 
ing I  have  a  telegram  from  him  asking  me  to  come  to 
Portland,  as  he  is  very  ill,  and  his  mother  cannot  be  with 
him." 

"Shall  you  go,  Miss  Mallison  ? "  asked  Gertrude, 
with  visible  constraint. 

Anna  looked  at  her  then,  surprised,  and  instantly  felt 
the  indefinable  coldness  of  her  reception  of  her  little  story. 

"  I  am  on  my  way  to  take  the  ten  o'clock  train  east," 
she  said  simply,  her  voice  faltering  slightly.  For  all  her 
courage  and  steadiness,  her  heart  was  crying  out  for  a 
little  touch  of  another  woman's  gentleness ;  the  way 
before  her  was  not  easy,  and  there  was  a  sense  of  lone- 
liness upon  her  which  began  to  make  itself  acutely  felt. 

Gertrude  Ingraham  rose  and  said  :  — 

"  I  am  so  very  sorry  for  Mr.  Burgess.  We  liked  him 
1 


H4  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

very  much.  You  must  let  me  go  and  speak  to  mamma 
a  moment,  for  I  know  she  would  wish  to  give  you  some 
message.  I  will  not  keep  you  long."  And  she  hurried 
from  the  room. 

Anna  sat  alone  and  watched  the  minute-hand  of  a 
French  clock  on  the  mantel  moving  slowly  along  the 
gilded  dial,  a  heavy  oppression  on  her  spirit.  She  had 
not  consciously  expected  sympathy,  but  Gertrude's  aloof- 
ness hurt  her  strangely. 

Some  one  came  softly  into  the  room  behind  her  just 
then,  so  softly  that  she  turned  rather  because  she  felt  a 
presence  than  because  she  heard  a  step.  It  was  Oliver 
Ingraham. 

The  peculiar  personality  of  this  mysterious  man  in- 
spired Anna  always  with  an  aversion  hardly  less  than 
terror,  and  although  she  had  become  familiar  with  his 
presence  in  her  frequent  visits,  it  had  never  become  less 
painful  to  her.  Indeed,  latterly,  a  new  element  of  dis- 
comfort had  been  added  to  her  feeling  tov/ard  him,  since 
he  had  shown  a  marked  disposition  to  follow  her  about, 
and  intrude  a  manner  of  unpleasant  gallantry  upon  her. 

He  greeted  her  now  almost  effusively,  and,  perceiving 
that  she  was  prepared  as  if  for  a  journey,  asked  at  once :  — 

"  Not  going  away  ?  The  painful  hour  of  parting  is 
not  here  yet,  surely  ?  " 

Anna  made  a  vague  and  hurried  reply. 

"  Because,  you  know,"  pursued  Oliver,  lowering  his 
voice  to  an  offensive  tone  of  familiarity,  and  maliciously 
mimicking  the  phraseology  of  his  stepmother's  friends, 
"  we  could  hardly  spare  our  dear  young  sister  yet ;  she 
is  becoming  really  indispensable  to  us,"  and  he  held  out 
one  long  hand  as  if  to  clasp  that  of  Anna,  leering  at  her 
repulsively. 


Morning  115 

Anna  rose  hurriedly  and  moved  away  from  him,  her 
heart  beating  hard  with  fear  and  antipathy.  To  her 
great  relief  she  heard  Gertrude  Ingraham's  step  in  the 
hall,  and  Anna,  with  her  face  paler  than  it  had  been, 
met  her  at  the  door,  while  Oliver  slunk  away  to  a  little 
distance,  and  appeared  to  be  looking  out  of  a  window 
unconcernedly. 

Gertrude  Ingraham  carried  a  pocket-book  open  in  her 
hand,  and  as  she  spoke  she  looked  at  it,  and  not  at 
Anna. 

"  Mamma  is  so  very  sorry,  and  sends  her  best  wishes 
and  hopes  for  Mr.  Burgess's  quick  recovery.  She  hopes 
you  will  let  her  know;  and,  Miss  Mallison,"  Gertrude 
was  evidently  embarrassed,  "  mamma  says  it  is  such  a 
long  and  expensive  journey,  and  she  wishes  you  would 
just  take  this  with  you  to  make  everything  as  comforta- 
ble as  may  be."  And  she  drew  out  a  crisp  twenty-dollar 
note,  which  she  essayed  to  put  in  Anna's  hand. 

Anna  had  not  known  before  that  she  was  proud.  She 
did  not  know  it  now,  but  Gertrude  Ingraham  did,  and 
was  touched  with  keen  compunction.  She  understood 
that   her  mother  would   have  been  more  successful. 

It  was  only  the  swift,  unconscious  protest  of  Anna's 
hand,  the  pose  of  her  head  as  she  turned  to  go,  and  the 
quiet  finality  with  which  she  said  :  — 

"Will  you  thank  Mrs.  Ingraham  for  me,  and  say  I 
did  not  need  it  ?      She  is-  always  kind.      Good-by." 

A  moment  later  Gertrude  watched  from  the  window 
the  slender  figure  in  its  faded,  scanty  black,  with  the 
heavy,  old-fashioned  satchel,  passing  down  the  wind- 
swept lawn,  under  the  grey  and  bitter  sky. 

Within  was  warmth  and  luxury  and  protection,  and 
yet    Gertrude's   heart   leaped  with   a  strong   passion   of 


n6  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

desire  to  forego  all  this  and  take  Anna  Mallison's  place, 
that  so  she  might  start  on  that  long  journey  which  should 
bring  her,  at  its  end,  to  the  side  of  Keith  Burgess. 

Small,  unseen  tragedies  in  women's  lives  such  as  this, 
never  once,  perhaps,  expressed,  and  never  forgotten, 
work  out  the  heroic  hypocrisies  which  women  learn, 
since  such  is  their  allotted  part. 

"  You  might  have  known  better  than  to  offer  money 
to  that  girl,"  Oliver's  high,  shrill  voice  behind  Gertrude 
said.  "She's  as  confoundedly  proud  as  all  the  other 
saints.  But  she'll  have  to  come  down  yet.  We  shall 
see  some  day." 

Thus  unpleasantly  interrupted  in  her  reverie,  Gertrude 
rose  impatiently,  and  left  the  room. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  that  evening  when  Anna  reached 
Boston.  Dismayed  by  the  small  remainder  of  money 
left  her  after  her  railway  ticket  was  bought,  she  had  not 
dared  to  spend  anything  for  food  through  all  the  day, 
and  had  tried  to  think  the  cold,  dry  bread,  a  few  slices 
of  which  she  had  put  into  her  satchel,  was  sufficient  for 
her  needs. 

In  Boston  a  change  of  stations  made  a  cab  a  neces- 
sity if  she  would  not  lose  the  Portland  train,  and  this 
she  must  not  do,  since  she  had  telegraphed  Keith  from 
Burlington  that  she  would  be  with  him  in  the  morning. 
Anna  alighted  at  the  station  of  the  Maine  Railroad  and 
heard  the  cabman  say  that  his  fee  was  two  dollars  with 
a  sensation  hardly  less  than  terror.  She  paid  him  with- 
out a  word,  then  entering  the  station,  sat  down  in  the 
glare  of  light  amid  the  confusion  of  the  moving  crowd, 
and  looked  into  her  poor  little  purse,  a  sharp  contraction 
at  her  throat  as  she  counted,  and  found  less  than  three 
dollars  left. 


Morning  ny 

The  train  would  leave  in  fifteen  minutes.  Anna  went 
with  as  brave  a  face  as  she  could  manage,  to  the  office, 
and  asked  what  was  the  fare  to  Portland.  The  curt 
reply  of  the  agent  proved  the  glaring  insufficiency  of  her 
small  remaining  store.  Trembling  with  weakness  and 
dismay,  Anna  turned  back  to  her  place  and  sat  down, 
closing  her  eyes  while  she  prayed.  She  had  friends  in 
missionary  circles  in  Boston,  who  would  gladly  have  lent 
her  money,  but  time  failed  to  seek  them  out.  She 
thought,  as  she  prayed,  of  the  money  which  Gertrude 
Ingraham  had  proffered  in  the  morning,  and,  humbled, 
asked  forgiveness  for  the  ignorance  and  pride  which  had 
led  her  to  reject  it.  The  thought  of  Keith  watching, 
perhaps  in  vain,  for  her  coming  in  his  loneliness  and 
great  need,  perhaps  in  his  extremity,  overwhelmed  her 
with  pity  and  penitence.  Having  prayed  for  forgiveness 
and  for  guidance,  and  for  a  way  out,  and  a  way  to  Keith 
that  night,  she  opened  her  eyes,  astonished  for  the  mo- 
ment at  the  harsh  light  and  the  motley  scene  about  her, 
her  actual  surroundings  having  been  for  the  time  forgot- 
ten in  the  complete  abstraction  of  her  mind.  She  gazed 
for  a  few  moments  languidly  before  her,  her  face  so 
colourless  and  sorrowful  that  many  persons  who  passed 
her  looked  back  at  her  in  curiosity  and  concern.  Pres- 
ently the  space  before  her  became  clear;  there  was  a 
pause  in  the  fluctuating  course  of  passers-by,  and  nothing 
interposed,  for  the  instant,  between  her  and  the  window 
of  the  ticket  office. 

An  elderly  gentleman  in  a  long  travelling  cloak  and 
silk  hat,  carrying  a  snug  and  shiny  travelling  bag,  came 
up  to  the  window  with  the  confident  and  assured  bearing 
of  the  experienced  traveller.  Anna  heard  him  ask  for  a 
ticket  to  Portland.      She  recognized   him  at  once,  for  it 


i  i  8  A  Woman   of  Yesterday- 

was  Dr.  Durham,  the  missionary  secretary  who  had  once 
been  her  father's  guest. 

When  he  turned  from  the  window,  the  doctor  found 
the  pale,  quiet  girl  in  black  standing  just  behind  him  ; 
she  spoke  to  him  with  a  radiant  light  in  her  face,  such  as 
he  had  never  met  before.  To  herself,  Anna  was  saying 
with  a  sense  of  exquisite  joy  in  her  heart,  "  God  is  near," 
feeling  herself  close  touched  by  the  Almightiness.  To 
her  father's  friend  she  told  her  story  and  her  need  in  few 
words,  without  hesitation  or  doubt,  declaring,  necessarily, 
her  engagement  to  Keith  Burgess,  and  the  fact  that  she 
was  hastening  to  reach  him  on  account  of  his  serious 
illness. 

"  Amazing,  my  dear,"  exclaimed  Dr.  Durham,  taking 
off  his  hat  and  wiping  the  large  shining  baldness  of  his 
head,  "  amazing  indeed  !  I  am  myself  on  my  way  to 
Burgess,  and  we  can  make  the  journey  together.  Poor 
fellow  !  It  is  a  sad  case.  I  had  a  telegram  yesterday, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  start  until  to-night.  It  seems 
he  has  had  a  hemorrhage.  But  we  will  talk  all  this  over 
on  the  way,"  and  the  good  old  gentleman  made  haste  to 
buy  Anna's  ticket,  which  he  said  it  was  only  the  part  of 
the  Society  to  do,  and  she  must  never  mention  it  again. 
This  done,  they  hastened  on  together  to  the  train. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

How  true  it  is  that  our  destinies  are  decided  by  nothings,  and  that  a  small 
imprudence  helped  by  some  insignificant  accident,  as  an  acorn  is  fertilized  by  a 
drop  of  rain,  may  raise  the  tree  on  which  perhaps  we  and  others  shall  be 
crucified.    .    .    . 

Poor,  sorely  tried  Faith  !  She  has  but  one  way  out  of  the  difficulty  —  the 
word  Mystery.  It  it  in  the  origins  of  things  that  the  great  secret  of  destiny  lies 
hidden,  although  the  breathless  sequence  of  after  events  has  often  many  surprises 
for  us  too.  —  Amiel. 

The  incredible  luxury  of  her  breakfast  the  next 
morning  in  the  hotel  in  Portland  made  an  impression 
upon  Anna  which  she  could  never  forget,  since  she  was, 
in  fact,  very  nearly  starved.  The  rich  coffee,  the  deli- 
cate and  sumptuous  food,  the  noiseless  assiduity  of  the 
sleek  black  waiters,  the  great  glittering  room,  all  partook 
of  the  marvellous  to  her  exhausted  senses. 

Then  she  was  conducted  through  endless  passages 
where  her  feet  trod  in  baffling  silence  upon  the  lanes  of 
thick  crimson  carpet,  for  a  few  moments  she  was  alone 
in  a  room  to  bathe  and  prepare  herself,  and  then  a  low- 
voiced  woman,  stout  and  motherly,  met  her  at  the  door, 
and  she  was  led  to  Keith. 

He  was  lying,  fully  dressed,  on  a  broad  velvet  sofa,  in 
a  richly  furnished  room,  which  was  full  of  flowers,  and 
bright  with  the  light  of  the  snowy  winter  morning  and 
a  blazing  wood  fire.  His  eyes  were  luminous,  his  colour 
better  than  she  had  known  it,  and  he  did  not  look  ill. 
The  nurse  left  them  alone,  and  they  met  with  unfeigned 
but  quiet  happiness. 

"  Was  I  selfish  to  ask  you  to  come  this  long  journey, 
119 


I2o  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

just  for  me  ?"  Keith  asked  anxiously,  holding  her  hands. 
Anna  found  his  hot  and  tremulous,  and  soothed  them 
with  a  slow,  strong  motion  of  her  own. 

"  No,  not  selfish,"  she  said. 

"You  see,  I  am  not  very  ill;  in  fact,  I  am  sure  the 
worst  is  over  now,  and  I  shall  be  just  as  well  as  ever  in  a 
few  weeks  ;  but  I  had  a  terrible  cold  and  coughing  so 
there  was  a  little  hemorrhage,  —  simply  from  the  throat, 
we  understand  it  now, —  but  at  the  time  the  doctor  him- 
self was  alarmed,  and  so  was  I.  If  I  had  known  how 
slight  an  affair  it  really  was,  I  should  not  have  asked  so 
much  of  you,  but  I  cannot  be  sorry,  Anna.  I  shall 
have  to  stay  right  here  for  several  weeks,  they  say,  and 
it  will  be  everything  to  have  you  near  me,  don't  you 
see  ?  " 

"  I  am  most  grateful  to  be  with  you,  Keith." 

"And  will  you  talk  to  me  about  India,  and  about 
our  home  there  ?  I  have  thought  of  it  so  continually 
since  I  have  been  sick.  It  almost  seems  as  if  I  had 
seen  it,  and  you  in  it.  I  love  it  already,  Anna.  Please 
say  that  you  do  too,  just  a  little." 

"Tell  me  about  it.      Of  course  I  shall  love  it." 

"  It  is  all  made  of  bamboo,  you  know,  the  house,  and 
perched  up  in  the  air,  and  there  are  great,  wide  rooms, 
with  cool  shade,  and  a  sound  of  water  flowing;  there 
are  broad  bamboo  lattices  at  the  windows,  and  it 
is  still  and  peaceful,  and  the  servants  go  about  softly, 
and  you  are  there  in  a  white  dress,  Anna,  —  oh,  how  I 
want  to  see  you  in  that  white  dress !  It  has  tiny 
borders  of  gilt  and  coloured  embroidery,  and  it  suits  you 
so  much  better  than  this  hard  black  gown.  Will  you 
have  a  dress  made  soon  like  that  ?  " 

Anna  smiled  and  pressed  her  hand  over  Keith's  eyes, 


Morning  121 

which  were  full  of  childish  imploring.  She  was  begin- 
ning to  see  his  weakness  with  a  new  pain  at  her  heart. 

She  sat  with  him  an  hour,  and  then,  the  doctor  com- 
ing in,  she  was  sent  to  her  room  to  sleep  until  noon, 
while  Keith  should  rest,  and  have  an  interview  with 
Dr.  Durham,  their  fatherly  friend. 

When  Anna  reached  her  room,  she  found  on  a  table 
a  large  jar  of  roses,  rich  in  colour  and  fragrance,  and 
a  basket  of  hothouse  grapes.  The  day  was  bitterly 
cold,  and  it  was  snowing  hard,  the  thick  snowflakes 
melting  against  the  broad,  thick  glass  of  her  window. 

The  extravagant  luxury  of  such  fruit  and  flowers  in 
this  depth  of  midwinter  astonished  and  disturbed  her. 
There  was  no  one  of  whom  she  could  ask  questions, 
but  how  could  it  be  right  for  Keith  to  spend  so  much 
money  ?  To  remain  for  weeks  in  such  a  hotel  as  this 
seemed  to  Anna  to  involve  an  impossible  expenditure, 
and  she  lay  down  on  the  great  luxurious  bed  with  a 
bewildering  confusion  of  questions  to  which  no  answers 
were  forthcoming.  From  the  pinching  cold  and  hun- 
ger of  yesterday  to  the  luxurious  ease  of  to-day  was 
like  the  transformation  of  a  fairy  tale ;  and  Keith,  with 
his  weak  hands,  and  his  bright  eyes,  and  his  wistful 
eagerness  was  formidable  in  his  appeal  to  her.  She  did 
not  know  what  might  be  coming,  but  she  felt  anew  that 
she  had  surrendered  herself  and  was  pledged  now  to  do 
another's  will. 

At  noon  Anna  had  a  moment's  conference  with 
Keith's  physician.  He  assured  her  that  there  was  a  re- 
markable change  for  the  better  in  his  patient,  —  in  fact, 
that  he  looked  now  for  a  speedy  convalescence,  adding 
that  her  coming  had   produced  a  most  favourable  effect. 

The  whole  afternoon  of  that  January  day,  Keith  and 


122  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

Anna  were  left  alone  together.  The  nurse,  glad  of  a 
brief  release,  took  her  "  afternoon  out " ;  the  various 
doctors  of  medicine  and  divinity  betook  themselves  to 
other  places ;  and  word  was  given  the  page  that  Mr. 
Burgess  could  not  receive  visitors,  so  that  flowers  and 
cards  accumulated,  and  interruptions  were  postponed. 
There  was  justice  in  what  Keith  said,  that  they  had 
never  yet  had  a  chance  to  get  acquainted,  and  now  the 
afternoon  was  turned  to  good  account. 

Experience  and  instinct  made  Anna  a  nurse.  Keith 
was  sure  he  had  never  been  so  wholly  comfortable  as 
she  made  him,  and  the  effect  of  her  personal  presence 
was  like  health  and  healing  to  him. 

"  How  dear  you  are,  Anna,  and  how  absolutely  nec- 
essary to  me,"  he  said  fondly,  as  he  watched  her  quiet 
way  of  preparing  his  food  and  medicine.  "  I  foresee 
plainly  that  I  can  never  let  you  leave  me." 

When  twilight  gathered  and  the  room  grew  dusky, 
they  had  no  lights,  but  sat  by  the  fire,  Anna  on  a  low 
seat  beside  the  sofa,  and  silence  fell.  When  Keith  spoke 
again,  his  voice  betrayed  a  rising  emotion,  and  an  appeal 
before  which  she  trembled  within  herself. 

"  Anna,"  he  said,  "  why  should  you  leave  me  again  ? 
Why  need  we  be  separated  any  more  ?  I  need  you.  I 
can  get  strong  far  faster  with  you  beside  me,  for  you 
inspire  me  with  a  new  life.  Everything  seems  sure  and 
strong  when  you  are  with  me.  But  I  want  you  wholly 
mine  without  fear  or  favour.  Marry  me,  dear,  to-night, 
to-morrow  !  What  have  we  to  wait  for  ?  It  is  only 
three  months  before  our  marriage  was  to  be,  you  know." 

Concealing  her  agitation,  and  speaking  quite  steadily 
and  soothingly,  Anna  answered  :  — 

"  But  you  know,  Keith,  I  must  go   back  in  a   few 


Morning  123 

weeks,  and  finish  my  work  in  the  school  and  hospital. 
I  have  still  so  much  to  learn  before  I  can  make  a  really 
useful  missionary,  and  so  little  time  before  May  to  learn 
it  in.  You  know  I  have  cut  my  preparation  short  a 
year,  now,  so  that  we  may  go  out  together.  I  am  sure 
we  ought  to  wait  until  May." 

"Oh,  Anna!" 

The  words,  so  spoken,  had  all  the  force  of  an  inartic- 
ulate cry  from  the  man's  heart.  They  told  what  hours 
of  argument  and  pleading  could  not  have  conveyed,  — 
the  yearning  need  for  her  presence  and  her  upholding. 
Anna  lifted  her  eyes  to  Keith's,  and  saw  that  they  were 
dim  with  tears.  She  did  not  feel  them  to  be  unmanly 
tears,  knowing  his  physical  exhaustion,  and  they  moved 
her  profoundly.  She  rose  and  walked  to  the  window, 
looking  out  into  the  snowy  street.  Again  that  sense 
that  her  life  was  taken  out  of  her  own  hands  came  upon 
her ;  she  felt  like  those  of  old  who  feared  as  they  en- 
tered into  the  cloud.  She  feared,  but,  nevertheless,  she 
went  back  to  Keith,  and  said,  very  gently,  but  without 
hesitation  :  — 

"  If  we  should  be  married  to-morrow  night,  would 
that  please  you,  Keith  ?  " 

He  caught  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  cheek  with 
pathetic  eagerness. 

"  Oh,  my  girl,  am  I  wrong  to  move  you  to  do  this 
for  my  sake  ?  Forgive  me,  leave  me,  if  I  am  leading 
you  faster,  farther,  than  you  wish  to  go." 

"I  will  not  leave  you,  Keith,"  Anna  replied,  taking 
her  low  seat  again  at  his  side,  "  never,  any  more.  It  is 
the  will  of  God." 

The  next  day  Keith  was  much  stronger.  He  was 
able  to  walk  about  the  room,  to  sit  up  for  an  hour  at  a 


124  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

time,  and  to  talk  and  plan  to  his  heart's  desire.  His 
spirits  were  high,  and  he  was  full  of  irrepressible  happi- 
ness, and  yet  a  wistful,  grateful  question  always  rose  in 
his  eyes  when  they  rested  upon  Anna.  The  marriage 
was  arranged  to  take  place  in  Keith's  room  at  six  o'clock. 
Dr.  Durham  had  consented  to  remain  and  perform  the 
ceremony,  returning  to  Boston  that  night.  Keith's  phy- 
sician had  interposed  no  objection  to  the  plan,  and  even 
regarded  the  inevitable  excitement  as  likely  to  be  a  bene- 
fit rather  than  an  injury  to  his  patient. 

"  He  needs  you,  Miss  Mallison,"  he  remarked  with  an 
emphasis  which  Anna  felt  to  be  peculiarly  significant, 
finding  him  a  man  of  few  words. 

It  was  five  o'clock,  and  Anna  had  gone  to  her  room 
to  make  ready  for  the  ceremony.  At  Keith's  urgent 
desire,  and  by  the  aid  of  one  of  the  many  efficient 
friends  whom  the  circumstances  of  his  illness  had  gath- 
ered around  him,  a  white  dress  had  been  ordered  for  her. 
She  found  it  now,  lying  in  delicate  tissue  wrappings 
upon  her  bed,  and  beside  it  a  box  of  orange  flowers  whose 
fragrance  filled  the  room. 

She  was  becoming  a  little  inured  to  luxury ;  colour, 
warmth,  perfume,  delight  to  sense,  seemed  here  to  be 
the  natural  order.  A  vague  perplexity  lay  below  it  all, 
but  she  had  ceased  now  to  ask  questions. 

As  she  bent  to  take  her  wedding-gown  from  its  wrap- 
pings, some  one  knocked  at  her  door.  It  was  Dr.  Dur- 
ham. There  was  a  shade  of  anxiety  upon  his  kind  old 
face,  and  he  asked  her  to  come  with  him  into  an  alcove 
at  the  end  of  the  hall.  With  an  uneasy  stirring  at  her 
heart,  Anna  followed  him.  Keith's  physician  was  stand- 
ing by  a  table  in  the  alcove,  evidently  awaiting  them. 

Anna  looked   into  his  face,  waiting  without  speaking 


Morning  125 

for  what  he  might  have  to  say.  Surely  it  was  impossi- 
ble that  Keith  could  be  worse;  it  was  not  ten  minutes 
since  she  left  him. 

"  Miss  Mallison,"  said  the  doctor,  gravely,  "  I  have 
been  having  a  little  conference  with  your  friend,  Dr. 
Durham,  and  we  find  that  there  is  a  chance  that  you 
may  be  under  some  misapprehension  of  the  actual  con- 
ditions under  which — under  which  you  are  about  to 
take  an  important  step." 

"  I  did  not  understand  it  myself,  my  dear  girl,  until 
within  the  last  hour,"  interposed  Dr.  Durham ;  "  and 
I  really  don't  know  now  what  we  ought  to  do.  Still, 
perfect  frankness,  perfect  understanding,  you  know,  may 
be  better  for  all  parties." 

The  good  old  man  was  visibly  oppressed  with  the 
burden  of  the  part  he  had  to  bear  in  the  interview. 
Motionless  Anna  stood,  only  turning  her  eyes  from  one 
man  to  the  other  in  troubled  wonder. 

"  The  facts  are  simply  these,"  the  physician  took  up 
the  word  again,  "  and  I  am  greatly  surprised,  and  I  may 
add  greatly  pained,  that  they  have  not  apparently  been 
understood  before.  Mr.  Burgess  will  recover  from  this 
attack,  and  may  have  years  yet  of  moderate  health,  but 
as  for  carrying  out  his  purpose  to  go  out  as  a  foreign 
missionary,  it  is  absolutely  impossible.  Such  a  course 
would  simply  be  suicidal,  and  must  not  be  considered 
for  a  moment." 

"  Not  now,  perhaps,"  Anna  spoke  very  low,  in  a 
strange,  muffled  tone;  "but  it  may  be  —  later —  ?  "  and 
she  turned  her  imploring  eyes  from  the  face  of  one  man 
to  the  other. 

"To  be  perfectly  frank,  my  dear,"  said  Dr.  Durham, 
pressing  his  hands  nervously  together,  "  after  what  the 


126  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

doctor  has  told  me  of  the  condition  of  our  dear  friend, 
the  organic  difficulty,  and  all  that,  you  see  —  I  fear  that 
I  can  only,  in  justice  to  all  concerned,  state  plainly  that 
our  Board  would  not  be  justified  in  sending  him.  I  as- 
sure you  the  blow  is  a  severe  one  to  me  in  my  capacity 
as  secretary ;  for  we  regard  Keith  Burgess  as,  perhaps, 
the  most  promising  candidate  who  has  ever  come  before 
us.  It  is  a  dark  Providence,  and  you  will  believe  me 
that  only  a  sense  of  our  duty  in  the  matter  has  led  us  to 
put  the  case  so  plainly  before  you." 

Anna  did  not  speak. 

"  I  was  not  aware,  Miss  Mallison,"  said  the  physi- 
cian, "  until  an  hour  ago,  that  you  were  yourself  under 
appointment  as  a  missionary.  When  I  learned  this  fact, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  you  should  not  enter  upon  the 
proposed  line  of  action  without  knowing  clearly  that  it 
involves  giving  up  your  chosen  career,"  and  with  these 
words  the  doctor  bowed  and  turned  to  withdraw. 

Anna  turned  to  Dr.  Durham. 

"  Mr.  Burgess  does  not  know  that  he  must  give 
up  —  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  oh,  no,"  was  the  reply ;  "  the  doctor  says  that 
he  must  on  no  account  be  allowed  to  learn  it  until  he  is 
stronger.  His  heart  is  so  entirely  bound  up  in  this 
noble  purpose,  that  the  blow  will  be  a  terrible  one  when 
it  comes." 

"  We  must  wait,  Miss  Mallison,  until  he  is  as  far  as 
may  be  recovered,  before  we  allow  him  to  even  suspect 
the  actual  state  of  the  case  ; "  the  doctor  added  this, 
looking  at  Anna's  face  with  surprise  and  concern.  "  If 
I  can  serve  you  in  any  way,  do  not  fail  to  call  upon  me. 
For  the  present  I  must  say  good  evening,"  and  he 
hastened  away. 


Morning  127 

Dr.  Durham  followed,  walking  along  the  hall  by  his 
side.  The  look  in  Anna's  face  awed  him.  He  felt 
that  it  was  not  his  right  to  share  in  an  hour  of  such 
conflict  as  this  bade  fair  to  be  to  her,  for  he  perceived 
already  something  of  what  her  missionary  vocation 
meant  to  her.  Anna,  however,  did  not  notice  that  he 
had  gone  ;  the  crisis  was  too  great  to  permit  her  paying 
heed  to  the  accidental  circumstances  around  her.  A 
voice  in  her  heart  seemed  crying  with  constant  iteration, 
"  Father  !   Father  !  What  does  God  mean  ?  " 

For  ten  minutes  Anna  stood  alone  in  the  alcove, 
looking  steadily  before  her,  but  in  her  bewildered  pain 
seeing  no  outward  thing,  while  in  the  far  dim  reaches 
of  the  hall  the  good  old  clergyman  paced  noiselessly  to 
and  fro. 

On  one  side  Anna  saw  her  father's  life,  with  all  its 
deep  renunciation,  its  pure  aims,  its  defeat,  and  its  one 
final  hope  of  fulfilment  in  herself;  she  saw  the  look  in 
his  eyes  as  he  bent  above  her  in  the  little  church  that 
night,  when  she  declared  her  purpose  to  become  a  mis- 
sionary ;  she  remembered  his  Nunc  Dimittis  as  he  blessed 
her  with  dying  eyes;  she  lived  again  through  the  solemn 
hour  of  dedication,  just  after  her  father's  death,  when 
the  sense  came  upon  her  that  she  was  called  of  God  to 
carry  on  what  her  father  began,  to  be  in  herself  the 
continuance,  and  through  divine  grace  the  fruition,  of 
his  life.  Since  that  hour  life  had  meant  only  one  thing 
to  Anna ;  no  other  purpose  or  desire  had  ever  entered  to 
divide  or  diminish  its  control  over  her  :  she  was  set 
apart  to  carry  the  gospel  of  Christ  to  the  heathen  ;  this 
one  thing  only  would  she  do. 

This  on  the  one  side,  strong  as  life  itself,  inwoven 
into  the  very  texture  of  her  soul  and  her  consciousness. 


128  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

On  the  other  side  Keith  Burgess,  even  now  scarcely 
better  than  a  stranger,  and  yet,  by  the  will  of  God  as 
she  believed,  bound  to  her  by  sacred  and  indissoluble 
vows.  To  be  faithful  to  those  vows,  to  save  him  from 
despair,  perhaps  from  death,  she  must  cut  oft"  all  her 
past,  must  read  her  life  all  backward,  must  annul  and 
declare  vain  and  void  the  most  solemn  purposes  of  her 
soul. 

From  his  retreat,  watching,  Dr.  Durham  at  length 
saw  Anna  advancing  down  the  hall  toward  the  door 
of  her  room.  He  met  her  there,  a  question  he  did  not 
dare  to  speak  in  his  tired,  kind  old  eyes.  Her  face  was 
as  the  face  of  one  who  has  even  in  the  moment  received 
a  spiritual  death-blow. 

He  held  his  watch  in  his  hand.  Without  speaking, 
Anna  motioned  to  him,  and  he  replied  :  — 

"  It  is  nearly  half  past  five,  my  dear." 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  her  voice  dull  and  toneless; 
"  I  will  be  ready  at  six  o'clock." 

As  if  in  a  dream  she  prepared  herself  for  her  marriage. 
She  moved  as  if  in  response  to  another  will  than  her 
own ;  her  own  will  seemed  to  lie  dead  before  her,  a 
visible,  tangible  thing,  done  to  death  by  her  own  hand. 
The  white  gown,  Keith's  gift,  seemed  less  a  wedding- 
garment  than  a  burial  robe,  and  a  strange  smile  crossed 
her  face  when  she  caught  her  reflection  in  the  glass,  and 
saw  that,  save  for  her  eyes,  her  face  was  wholly  colourless, 
the  pale  flowers  on  her  breast  hardly  paler,  hardly  colder. 

At  the  clock-striking  of  the  appointed  hour,  Anna 
entered  the  room,  and,  taking  her  place  beside  Keith, 
whose  face  was  full  of  tender  gladness,  she  lifted  her 
eyes  steadily  to  the  old  clergyman's  face,  listening  as 
for  life  and  death  to  his  words. 


Morning  129 

"  In  sickness  and  in  health,  ...  for  richer  for  poorer, 
.  .  .  and  forsaking  all  others,  keep  thee  only  unto  him." 
Yes,  all  others.  God  only  knew  the  significance  of 
those  words,  for  they  seemed  to  mean  God  himself  just 
then  ;  but  God  would  pity.  He  would  help.  Her 
response  came  low  but  unfaltering,  and  then,  with  bowed 
heads,  standing  side  by  side  in  their  youth,  their  inno- 
cence, their  patience  of  hope,  they  two  listened  solemnly 
to  the  last  irrevocable  words. 

So  steadfastly  Anna  held  herself  until  the  end,  but 
hardly  had  the  final  word  of  blessing  been  pronounced, 
when,  with  a  low  cry  for  help,  she  wavered  as  she  stood, 
and  fell  fainting:. 


BOOK    II 

AFTERNOON 

Hear  now  our  cry  for  strength  to  bear  the  weight  of  prayers  unanswered. 

—  Maarten    Maartens. 


CHAPTER   XV 

The  evil  base  of  our  society  eats  right  through  ;  that  our  wealthy  homes 
are  founded  on  the  spoliation  of  the  poor  vitiates  all  the  life  that  goes  on  within 
them.  Somehow  or  other,  it  searches  through  and  degrades  the  art,  manners, 
dress,  good  taste  of  the  inmates.  —  Edward    Carpenter. 

It  was  a  month  later,  when  a  train  from  the  east, 
entering  the  Fulham  station  at  five  o'clock  of  the  Feb- 
ruary afternoon,  brought  Keith  Burgess  and  his  wife 
home. 

Keith  was  apparently  in  fairly  good  physical  condition, 
and  looked  and  carried  himself  much  as  he  had  when 
Anna  first  knew  him,  although  she  could  now  detect 
the  underlying  weakness  which  he  strove  hard  to  con- 
ceal. He  had  been  told  in  due  time  of  what  was 
involved  in  his  illness.  The  shock  had  been  severe 
both  to  mind  and  body,  and  for  a  while  a  serious  relapse 
had  seemed  imminent.  Those  days  had  brought  the 
young  wife  and  husband  into  a  new  union  of  sympathy 
and  suffering,  as  each  strove  to  bear  the  burden  of  their 
thwarted  lives  bravely  for  the  other's  sake.  Not  at  that 
time  nor  at  any  later  period  was  it  possible  for  Anna  to 
let  Keith  know  to  the  full  the  meaning  of  this  renuncia- 
tion to  her.  He  knew  that  to  her,  as  to  him,  the  aban- 
donment of  the  missionary  purpose  was  a  profound  and 
poignant  sorrow  ;  he  did  not  know  that  it  was  the  over- 
throw of  all  that  had  made  her  life  hitherto,  and  that, 
whatever  new  forces  and  motives  might  produce  out  of 
the  elements  of  her  character,  the  old  life,  the  first  Anna 
Mallison,  was  slain. 

133 


134  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

Keith  had  told  her  little  of  what  lay  before  them  in 
his  mother's  home,  which  was  now  to  be  theirs ;  they 
had  been  too  deeply  absorbed  in  the  present  emergency 
to  take  much  thought  for  the  future.  This  much,  how- 
ever, had  been  accomplished  in  a  week's  sojourn  in 
Boston  :  Keith  would  shortly  be  appointed  to  fill  a  mis- 
sionary secretaryship,  which  involved  much  travel  and 
speaking  in  the  interests  of  the  cause,  but  permitted  him 
to  make  his  residence  in  Fulham.  The  strong  hope 
which  Anna  clung  to  silently  for  herself,  as  the  last 
pitiful  substitute  for  the  calling  now  denied  her,  was 
that  she,  too,  might  still  accomplish  something  for  the 
work  so  urgent  in  its  claims  upon  her,  by  presenting  it, 
as  occasion  offered,  among  Christian  women  in  her  own 
land.  But  she  knew  that  her  life  was  no  longer  in  her 
own  hands  to  shape  and  direct  as  she  might  will ;  not 
only  was  Keith  now  to  be  her  care,  her  chief  concern 
and  interest,  but  she  looked  forward  to  daughterly  duties 
toward  his  invalid  mother,  to  whom  it  was  in  her  mind 
to  minister  with  loving  and  faithful  devotion. 

As  the  train  now  drew  into  the  Fulham  station,  Keith 
remarked,  casually  :  — 

"  There's  Foster,  all  right.  I  knew  he  would  be  on 
hand."  And,  looking  from  the  car  platform,  Anna  saw 
a  grey-haired  man-servant  in  plain  livery,  who  saluted 
Keith  respectfully  as  he  hastened  to  the  spot,  and  wore 
an  expression  of  solicitude  and  responsibility  which 
stamped  him  at  once  as  an  old  family  servant.  As  they 
gave  over  their  hand  luggage  to  this  man,  and  followed 
him  out  to  the  street  where  a  plain  closed  carriage  stood 
in  waiting,  an  unostentatious  "B"  on  the  door  showing 
it  to  be  private,  a  deep  perplexity  and  confusion  began  to 
rise  in  Anna's  mind.      She  had  gradually  become  accus- 


Afternoon  !jr 

tomed  to  the  luxuries  of  the  life  in  the  Portland  hotel, 
and  had  regarded  them  as  incident  to  the  passage  of  a 
grave  crisis,  and  justified,  perhaps,  by  the  necessities  of 
the  case;   but  she  had  not  been  interested  in  thinking 
farther  along  the  line  of  the   Burgesses'  worldly  status, 
least  of  all  minded  to  make  it  a  matter  of  inquiry,  con- 
sequently the  sight  of  the  man-servant  and  the  family 
carriage  smote  her  with  a  sharp  sense  of  entering  a  new 
and  undreamed-of  outward  life.      In  them  was  the  first 
obvious   token   which   had   ever  been  given   her  of  her 
husband's  home  surroundings  and  worldly  position.     A 
vague   anxiety  and   dread  were   awakened   in  Anna  by 
these  small  signs  of  a  life  and  habit  so  widely  at  variance 
with  her  own   past  of  austere  privation.     She  saw  the 
low  white  cottage  figured  heretofore  in  her  thought,  in 
the  narrow  street,  fading  before  her;    the  geraniums  in 
the  window,  the  cat  on  the  cushion,  the  braided  mats,  the 
wooden  rocking-chair,  the  little  table  with  the  Bible  and 
cough-drops,  wavered  in  all  their  outlines,  and  fell  like  a 
house  of  cards.     How  would  it  be  with  the  figure  of  the 
sweet,  saintly,  patient  invalid  to  whom  she  was  to  min- 
ister?    Must  that  go  too  ?     Anna  ceased  to  speculate,  but 
she  sat  silent  beside  her  husband,  and  her  heart  beat  hard. 
When  the  carriage  stopped,  it  was  in  a  fine  old  quiet 
street  lined  with  substantial  dwellings,  and  before  a  large 
brick  house  painted  a  dull  drab.     The  house  stood  with 
its  broad,  low  front  close  to  the  street ;  there  were  many 
small-paned,  shining  windows,  and  a  brass  knocker  on 
the  panelled  black  front  door.    Nothing  could  have  been 
plainer  or  less  pretentious,  and  yet  the   house   bore,  to 
Anna's  first  intuitive  perception,  its  own  unmistakable 
expression  of  decorous  and  inflexible  dignity  and  quietly 
cherished  family  pride. 


136  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

As  they  entered  the  wide,  low-ceiled,  oak-wainscoted 
hall,  a  neatly  dressed  middle-aged  woman  advanced 
and,  speaking  in  a  low  voice  to  Anna,  asked  if  she 
would  follow  her  up  to  her  rooms,  Keith  introduc- 
ing her  pleasantly  as  his  mother's  indispensable  Jane. 
No  one  else  was  in  sight ;  but  Mrs.  Burgess's  in- 
valid condition  seemed  to  account  sufficiently  for  this, 
although  Anna  had  supposed  her  able  to  move  about 
the  house,  and  even  to  go  out  under  favouring  con- 
ditions. 

Keith  joined  Anna  on  the  stairs,  taking  her  hand  in 
his.  He  smiled  tenderly  as  he  looked  into  her  face,  but 
there  was  a  nervous  eagerness  upon  him  which  he  could 
not  conceal.  Was  he  thinking  that  he  had  chosen  his 
wife  for  far  other  scenes  and  a  widely  different  life  ? 
She  could  not  tell. 

"  This  was  my  old  room,  Anna,"  Keith  was  saying 
now,  as  they  stood  in  the  doorway  of  a  spacious  bedroom 
with  old-fashioned  mahogany  furniture  and  handsome  but 
faded  chintz  hangings.  There  was  a  marble  chimney- 
piece,  over  which  hung  a  large  picture  of  Keith,  with  a 
boyish,  eager  face. 

Jane  now  threw  open  a  door  from  this  room  into 
another  of  equal  size. 

"  If  you  please,  I  was  to  tell  you  this  is  to  be  Mrs. 
Burgess's  own  sitting  room,"  she  said  respectfully, "  and 
the  dressing  room  and  bath  beyond  the  bedroom  will  be 
for  your  own  use  entirely  after  this,"  and  she  crossed  to 
open  another  door. 

Keith  drew  Anna  on  into  the  sitting  room. 

"  Well,  now,  this  is  certainly  very  kind  of  my  mother," 
he  said,  a  flush  of  grateful  pleasure  rising  in  his  sensitive 
face.     "  See,  Anna,  this  has  always  been  the  state  apart- 


Afternoon  137 

ment,  the  guest-chamber  of  the  house,  and  she  has  had 
it  refitted  for  our  use." 

"  How  very  kind,"  said  Anna,  warmly. 

The  room  was,  indeed,  in  its  own  manner,  grave  and 
subdued,  a  luxurious  parlour,  with  good  pictures,  hand- 
some hangings,  and  soft,  pale-tinted  carpet. 

"  I  must  go  down  at  once  and  tell  the  dear  mother 
how  we  thank  her,"  said  Keith,  and  Anna,  left  alone, 
returned  to  the  bedroom  and  began  to  remove  her  trav- 
elling hat. 

Jane  was  beside  her  at  once,  giving  unneeded  assist- 
ance. 

"  Shall  I  unpack  for  you  directly  ?  "  she  asked,  look- 
ing at  Keith's  small  trunk,  which  was  quite  adequate  to 
Anna's  few  belongings,  added  to  her  husband's.  Anna 
felt  her  colour  deepen  as  she  declined  the  offered  help, 
and  sat  down  with  a  little  sigh  in  a  great  easy-chair. 
But  she  submitted  perforce  when  the  maid  knelt  at  her 
feet,  and,  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  removed  her  shoes. 
It  was  the  first  time  since  babyhood  that  this  office  had 
been  performed  for  Anna  by  other  hands  than  her  own, 
and  she  felt  all  her  veins  tingle  with  a  shy  reluctance, 
but  sat  motionless. 

Rising,  Jane  looked  about,  Anna  thought  with  a 
shade  of  dissatisfaction  that  there  was  thus  far  so  little 
to  be  done,  so  scanty  a  display  of  the  small  belongings 
of  luxury. 

"  When  you  are  ready  to  dress  for  dinner,"  she  said 
with  a  touch  of  coldness,  "  I  will  come  if  you  will  just 
ring  the  bell.  The  bell  is  here,"  and  she  indicated  the 
green  twisted  cord  and  heavy  silk  tassel  at  the  head  of 
the  bed.  "  Mrs.  Burgess  said  she  could  spare  me  to 
wait  on  you  for  what  you  needed  to-night,"  she  added. 


138  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Anna,  gently,  but  with  the  quiet 
unconscious  loftiness  of  her  own  reserve.  "  Mrs.  Burgess 
is  very  good  to  think  of  it,  but  I  am  accustomed  to 
caring  for  myself,  and  so  I  shall  not  need  to  trouble 
you." 

"Very  well,  that  will  be  just  as  suits  you,  ma'am.  I 
should  be  pleased  to  wait  on  you  any  time  Mrs.  Burgess 
doesn't  need  me.  Dinner  will  be  at  six  o'clock,  then, 
if  you  please."      Thus  saying  the  maid  withdrew. 

"  Keith,"  said  Anna,  with  a  perplexed  countenance, 
when  a  few  moments  later  he  joined  her,  "  I  find  I 
ought  to  dress  for  dinner,  but  I  have  nothing  better  to 
wear  than  this  black  gown.  You  ought  to  have  told  me, 
dear." 

Keith  looked  down  at  the  straight  fashionlessness  of 
Anna's  black  figure  with  unconcealed  concern. 

"  I  ought  to  have  thought,"  he  said,  "  but  it  never 
occurred  to  me  about  your  clothes.  We  must  get  you 
a  whole  lot  of  new  things  straight  away,  dear.  We  will 
do  it  together,  and  have  a  great  time  over  it,  won't  we  ? 
And  you  will  put  off  the  black  now  for  my  sake  ?  I 
want  to  see  you  in  wine-red  silk  and  good  lace." 

"  Oh,  Keith  !  "  cried  Anna,  "I  cannot  imagine  myself 
masquerading  like  that.  It  would  never  do.  But  for 
to-night  —  that  is  the  trouble  now." 

"  Why,  wear  your  wedding-gown,  sweetheart ;  that  is 
just  the  thing.  What  luck  that  we  did  get  that !  "  and 
Keith  was  down  on  his  knees  before  the  trunk  on  the 
instant,  and  soon  produced  the  dress  which,  being  of 
fine  white  cashmere,  with  a  little  lace  about  the  neck, 
was,  in  fact,  altogether  appropriate. 

Anna  looked  puzzled.  It  seemed  to  her  almost 
sacrilegious  to  put  on  that  dress  for  everyday  use,  and 


Afternoon  139 

the  association  with  it  made  her  shiver,  even  now,  but 
she  did  not  dispute  the  matter. 

Just  before  six  o'clock  Keith  ushered  his  wife  into 
the  library  downstairs,  where  his  mother  sat  waiting  to 
receive  them.  It  was  the  sort  of  a  library  which  Anna 
had  read  of  but  had  not  seen  —  lined  with  books,  fur- 
nished with  massive  leather-covered  chairs  and  darkly 
gleaming  mahogany,  a  dim  old  India  carpet  on  the  floor. 

Anna  saw  by  the  shaded  drop-light  the  form  of  a  small 
woman  of  fragile  figure,  dressed  in  silver-grey  silk,  with 
a  white  shawl  of  cobweb  fineness  of  texture  about  her 
shoulders.  There  were  several  good  diamonds  at  her 
throat  and  on  her  hands,  her  grey  hair  was  beautifully 
dressed  in  soft  waves  and  fastened  with  a  quaint  silver 
comb  of  fine  workmanship.  Her  face  was  pale  and  the 
'eatures  delicately  cut ;  her  movement  as  she  advanced 
to  meet  Anna  was  slow,  and,  in  spite  of  her  diminutive 
size,  stately,  and  there  was  a  crisp,  frosty  rustle  of  her 
grey  gown. 

She  took  both  Anna's  hands  in  hers  with  a  cold,  kind 
smile,  and  kissed  her  twice  on  her  forehead,  Anna  bend- 
ing low  for  the  purpose.  She  seemed  to  be  at  an  incal- 
culable height  above  the  fine  little  lady,  and  singularly 
young  and  immature.  At  twenty-two  she  had  felt  her- 
self a  woman  for  long  years,  with  her  sober  cares  and 
grave  purposes;  but  to-night,  before  Keith's  mother,  she 
suddenly  seemed  to  become  a  shy,  undeveloped  girl  again. 

While  they  spoke  a  little  of  the  journey  and  the  night, 
Keith  Burgess  turned  on  his  heel  and  affected  to  be  ex- 
amining, with  critical  interest,  an  engraving  above  the 
fireplace,  which  he  had  seen  in  the  same  spot  all  his  life ; 
but  he  was  watching  them  both  aside  narrowly  as  he 
stood.      He  was  perfectly  satisfied. 


140  A  Woman   of  Yesterday 

If  Anna  had  been  never  so  much  prettier,  and  possessed 
of  all  of  Mally  Loveland's  confident  social  facility  ;  if 
she  had  met  his  mother  as  the  country  girl  of  this  type 
would  have  done,  with  eager  and  affectionate  appeal  that 
she  should  at  once  stand  and  deliver  motherly  sympathy 
and  affection  in  copious  measure,  —  there  would  have  been 
only  disappointment  and  chagrin.  But  Mrs.  Burgess's 
bearing  was  not  more  reserved  than  that  of  her  daughter- 
in-law.  At  twenty-two  Anna's  grave  repose  of  manner 
was  in  itself  a  distinction,  and  one  which  had  its  full 
weight  with  the  elder  woman.  Plainly,  she  had  not  a 
gushing  provincial  beauty  on  her  hands  to  curb  and  fash- 
ion into  form.  As  for  good  looks,  there  was  a  certain 
angular  grace  already  in  figure,  an  unconscious  dignity  of 
attitude  and  bearing  which  suited  Keith's  mother,  while 
for  her  face,  the  eyes  were  good,  the  brow  very  noble, 
and  the  expression  peculiarly  lofty.  The  succession  of 
strong  and  sudden  emotional  experiences  through  which 
Anna  had  recently  passed  had  wrought  a  subtle  change 
already  in  her  face  ;  there  was  less  severity,  less  of  hard, 
conscientious  rigour  in  its  lines  ;  a  certain  transparent, 
spiritual  illumination  softened  the  profound  sadness 
which  was  her  habitual  expression. 

At  dinner,  a  delicately  sumptuous  meal,  served  with 
some  state,  Anna  acquitted  herself  perfectly,  having  the 
instincts  of  good  breeding,  the  habit  of  delicate  refine- 
ment, and  having  learned  at  Mrs.  Ingraham's  table  many 
of  the  small  niceties  which  she  could  hardly  have  ac- 
quired in  Haran. 

Already,  within  the  first  hour,  while  seeing  that  her 
mother-in-law  had  been  physically  entirely  able  to  meet 
her  children  at  her  door  at  their  home-coming,  Anna 
perceived  the  inevitable  consistency  of  her  waiting  to 


Afternoon  141 

receive  them  in  due  form  and  order.  Formality  and 
form  were  essentials  of  life  in  this  house.  This  did  not 
oppress  Anna  particularly,  and  she  liked  to  look  at  the 
cameo-cut  delicacy  of  Mrs.  Burgess's  face.  Still,  per- 
haps never  in  her  life,  never  in  the  cheerless  chambers 
of  Mrs.  Wilson's  poor  house,  had  Anna  known  the 
homesickness  with  which  she  ate  and  drank  —  that 
night  at  her  husband's  table. 

Poverty  and  obscurity  were  old  and  tried  friends  to 
Anna ;  among  them  she  would  have  been  at  home. 
From  wealth  and  social  prominence  she  shrank  with 
instinctive  dread  and  ingrained  disfavour.  The  familiar 
austerities  of  poverty  were,  to  her,  denotements  of  men- 
tal elevation,  while  the  indulgences  of  wealth  bore  to  her 
thought  an  almost  vulgar  pampering  of  appetite  and 
ministering  to  sense.  The  trained  perfection  of  the 
silent  attentive  service  in  itself  was  an  offence  to  her. 
Why  should  those  people  be  turned  into  speechless  au- 
tomatons to  watch  every  wish  and  wait  upon  every  need 
of  three  other  people  no  more  deserving  than  themselves  ? 
Could  it  ever  seem  right  to  her  ? 

She  excused  herself  early.  Left  alone  with  him,  Mrs. 
Burgess  laid  her  small  hand  on  Keith's,  saying  without 
warmth  but  with  significant  emphasis:  — 

"  You  have  done  very  well,  Keith,  in  marrying  Miss 
Mallison.  I  confess  I  was  not  without  some  apprehen- 
sion lest  the  wife  who  would  have  been  a  perfect  help- 
meet and  companion  for  you  in  the  foreign  field  might 
appear  at  some  disadvantage  in  the  life  now  before  you 
in  the  ordering  of  Providence." 

"  Anna  is  so  absolutely  true,  mother,  that  she  cannot 
be  a  misfit  anywhere,  except  among  false  conditions." 

Mrs.  Burgess  bowed  her  head. 


142  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  I  can  see  that  she  is  a  thoroughly  exemplary  young 
woman,  and  while  she  may  have  much  to  learn  of  social 
conditions  in  a  place  like  Fulham,  the  foundation  is  all 
right."  She  paused  a  little,  and  added  reflectively  :  "  Her 
eyes  and  hands  are  extremely  good.  Her  figure  will 
improve.  I  understand  that  her  father  belonged  to  the 
Andover  Mallisons." 

There  was  a  little  flicker  of  Keith's  eyelids,  but  he 
made  no  reply,  taking  up  casually  from  the  table  a  book 
at  which  he  looked  with  mechanical  indifference.  It 
was  a  volume  of  Barnes's  "  Notes."  This  much  only 
of  Anna's  vision  had   had  foundation. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

For  the  most  part  people  do  not  think  at  all.  They  have  little  phrases 
and  formulas  which  stand  in  their  minds  for  thoughts  and  opinions,  and  they 
repeat  them  parrotlike.  Most  of  their  notions  and  ideas  and  prejudices  are 
mere  extraneous  accretions,  barnacled  on  to  them  by  men  and  books  in  their 
passage  through  life,  as  shells  are  on  a  vessel,  but  not  growing  out  of  them  or 
really  belonging  to  them.  —  Anon. 

Life  in  her  creaking  shoes 

Goes,  and  more  formal  grows, 
A  round  of  calls  and  cues. 

—  W.  E.  Henley. 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  on  Saturday  morning,  Anna 
Burgess  was  sitting  on  a  low  stool  in  the  middle  of  her 
bedroom,  surrounded  by  a  curious  confusion  and  medley 
of  miscellaneous  things.  Before  her  was  an  open  cedar 
chest  of  large  proportions  ;  its  pungent  odour  was  mingled 
with  the  spicy  smell  of  winter  apples,  dried  fruits,  and 
maple  sugar.  From  the  half  unpacked  chest,  quilts  of 
calico  patchwork  and  soft  home-woven  blankets  were 
overflowing ;  piles  of  snowy  linen  sheets  and  pillow- 
cases, finely  hemstitched  and  bordered  with  delicate 
thread-work,  lay  about  the  floor,  together  with  body 
linen  of  equal  daintiness,  and  books  in  dull  and  faded 
binding,  while  the  red  apples,  rolled  everywhere,  studded 
the  confused  array  as  commas  do  a  printer's  page. 

In  the  chest  still  lay  some  old-fashioned  furs  and 
other  clothing.  Anna,  as  she  sat,  had  her  lap  heaped 
with  a  quantity  of  yellowed  lace,  and  a  number  of  small, 
thin  silver  spoons.  She  was  reading  a  letter,  and,  as  she 
read,  unconsciously  tears  were  running  down  her  cheeks. 

i43 


144  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  You  must  have  known,"  wrote  Gulielma  Mallison, 
"  that  I  could  not  let  my  dear  daughter  go  empty- 
handed  to  her  new  home.  The  box  has  been  long, 
however,  in  being  made  ready,  but  I  know  your  husband 
and  his  mother  will  make  excuses,  the  marriage  having 
been  so  sudden.  Lucia  and  I  have  taken  comfort  in 
sorting  out  and  preparing  the  things.  The  linen  is, 
much  of  it,  what  was  left  of  my  own  bridal  outfit, 
but  we  have  bleached  it  on  the  snow,  and  it  is  still 
strong.  The  silver  I  have  tried  to  divide  equally  among 
you  all.  This  is  your  portion.  The  little  porringer,  you 
know,  came  over  from  Germany  with  my  mother,  then 
the  Jungfrau  Benigna  von  Brosius. 

"I  regret  that  I  am  unable  to  provide  you  with  more 
dresses,  etc.,  but  there  is  little  to  do  with  and  little  to 
choose  from  in  Haran.  Indeed,  I  hardly  ever  get  to 
Haran  any  more,  my  rheumatism  is  so  bad,  and  the 
going  has  been  terrible  this  winter.  We  got  Lucia's 
husband's  sister  to  buy  the  white  cotton  cloth,  and  sent 
it  back  by  Joseph  when  he  went  down  with  a  load  of 
wood.  The  brown  cloak  I  shall  not  be  likely  to  need 
any  more,  going  out  so  seldom,  and  Lucia  says  she 
doesn't  begrudge  it  to  you  at  all,  being  much  too  long 
for  her,  and  it  would  be  a  shame  to  cut  off  any  of  that 
material  to  waste.  You  know  it  is  the  best  of  camlet 
cloth,  and  there  is  no  wear  out  to  it.  I  have  given  Lucia 
the  melodeon,  and  she  says  it  is  only  fair  that  you  should 
have  the  cloak  and  the  brown  silk  dress.  We  got 
Amanda  Turner  to  make  that  over  for  you  by  an  old  waist 
we  had  of  yours.  She  was  here  three  days,  right  through 
the  worst  snowstorm  we  have  had  all  winter,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  interrupt  us.  We  turned  the  silk  and 
made   it  all  over.      I   think  we    succeeded  pretty    well. 


Afternoon  145 

I  thought  you  really  ought  to  have  one  silk  dress,  now 
you  are  going  to  live  in  this  country.  Of  course  you'll 
be  invited  out  to  tea  some,  there  in  Fulham.  The 
grey  merino  will  do  for  afternoons.  I  made  you  four 
aprons,  two  white,  and  two  check  to  wear  about  your 
work,  and  you'll  need  them  afternoons  for  taking  care 
of  your  husband's  mother.  Please  give  her  my  best 
respects.  I  send  the  dried  fruit  to  her,  —  maybe  it  will 
tempt  her  appetite  a  little,  —  and  part  of  the  maple  sugar, 
that  in  the  little  cakes.  Lucia  ran  it  for  her  especially. 
We  thought  maybe  they  wouldn't  have  it  down  there 
in  Fulham,  that  was  pure. 

"  I  am  sorry  we  haven't  anything  better  to  send  Mr. 
Burgess,  but  I  put  in  your  dear  father's  quilted  dressing- 
gown  as  my  particular  present ;  his  health  being  so  poor, 
Lucia  and  I  thought  it  might  be  acceptable.  The  books 
are  for  him,  from  your  father's  library.   .   .   ." 

The  letter  dropped  in  Anna's  lap,  and  covering  her 
face  with  both  hands,  she  burst  into  passionate  tears. 
Her  old  life,  in  all  its  homely,  simple  sweetness  called 
her  mightily,  and  the  sharp  sense  of  her  own  separation 
from  it  now  and  forever  tore  her  heart.  Her  mother's 
inability  to  comprehend  the  new  conditions,  the  eager 
self-sacrifice  which  had  gladly  shorn  her  own  poor  life 
bare  of  every  lingering  superfluity  of  possession  that  she 
might  equip  her  child  with  such  small  dower  as  was 
attainable,  had  to  Anna  a  pathos  which  seemed  almost 
too  poignant  to  endure.  How  well,  oh,  how  well  she 
understood  the  planning  and  contriving,  the  simple  joy 
in  each  small  new  object  gained  ;  the  delight  which  her 
mother  and  Lucia  had  shared  in  picturing  to  themselves 
her  own  grateful  surprise  in  the  manifold  treasures  stored 
in  the  dear  old  chest,  itself  an  heirloom  of  impressive 


146  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

value  in  the  Mallison  family.  And  she  was  grateful 
beyond  words  to  tell,  and  pleased  and  proud  to  come 
thus  set  out  to  her  husband;  and  yet,  these  possessions, 
so  unspeakably  precious  to  her,  would,  she  knew  only 
too  well,  wear  a  rustic  and  incongruous  aspect  in  the 
Burgess  household.  She  knew  that  Keith  and  his  mother 
would  be  gentle  and  respectful  in  thought  as  in  word, 
but  she  knew  the  faint  embarrassment  which  they  would 
try  to  conceal  in  receiving  gifts  for  which  they  would 
have  no  use  ;  she  knew  the  delicate,  half-pitying,  well- 
meaning  sympathy,  which  could  never  understand,  try 
as  it  would. 

On  Sunday  morning,  Anna  attended  church  with  her 
husband  and  his  mother  for  the  first  time,  the  latter 
making  a  great  effort,  since  church-going  was  far  beyond 
her  usual  invalid  routine.  When  Anna  presented  her- 
self in  the  hall  ready  to  start,  Mrs.  Burgess,  or  Madam 
Burgess  as  she  was  generally  styled  after  this  time,  had 
bit  her  lip  and  almost  gasped,  such  was  her  amazement 
and  dismay.  However,  she  had  said  nothing,  the  situa- 
tion being  plainly  hopeless,  and  she  sat  in  the  carriage 
in  speechless  anxiety,  while  Keith's  face  reflected  the 
same  emotion.  He  had  felt  it  impossible  to  interfere 
with  Anna's  arraying  herself  as  she  had  for  church,  see- 
ing with  his  sensitive  perception  that  the  garments  fash- 
ioned and  sent  her  from  her  home  by  the  hands  of  her 
mother  and  sister,  for  such  a  time  as  this,  were  in  her 
eyes  sacredly  beyond  criticism  or  cavil. 

Anna  now  preceded  him,  following  his  mother,  down 
the  broad  aisle  of  the  stately  and  well-filled  church, 
drawing  to  herself  unconsciously  the  attention  of  many 
eyes.  She  wore  over  the  soft  overshot  silk  gown  the 
brown  camlet  cloak  which  had  formed   in   her  mother's 


Afternoon  14-7 

eyes  the  chief  glory  of  her  simple  trousseau.  It  was  a 
long,  circular  cape,  falling  to  the  hem  of  her  dress, 
drawn  up  about  the  throat  and  shoulders  with  quaint 
smocking  after  a  forgotten  art,  and  tied  with  a  long, 
loose  bow  of  changeable  brown  ribbon.  The  outlines 
of  this  garment  were  so  simple  and  so  natural  that  it 
could  never,  at  any  period  or  by  any  shift  of  fashion, 
become  awkward,  but  it  had  at  that  time  an  effect  of 
Puritan-like  quaintness.  She  wore  a  dark,  broad-brimmed 
hat  with  falling  plumes,  according  well  in  simplicity  as 
in  colour  with  her  cloak. 

As  she  passed  down  to  the  Burgess  pew,  her  height 
and  bearing,  the  flowing  outline  of  her  costume,  the 
purity  and  unconscious,  childlike  seriousness  of  her  face 
with  its  clear  brum  pallor,  the  steady  light  of  her  hazel 
eyes,  the  lustreless  masses  of  her  dark  hair,  all  combined 
to  make  a  singular  impression  of  mediaeval  loveliness,  of 
something  rare  and  fine  and  wholly  distinct  from  the 
prevalent  type  of  women  in  the  ambitious  little  city. 
There  were  some  who,  seeing  her,  smiled  and  whispered 
at  the  quaintness  of  her  dress ;  there  were  others  who 
found  their  eyes  irresistibly  drawn  again  and  again  by 
the  picturesque  harmony  of  her  figure ;  there  were  one 
or  two  persons  who,  watching  the  proud,  pure  severity 
of  her  face  as  she  sat  with  her  soul  lifted  to  God  and 
heedless  of  outward  things,  saw  in  her  a  woman  fit  for 
reverence  and  wonder,  one  whose  spirit  had  been  most 
evidently  nourished  on  the  greatness  and  simplicity  of 
spiritual  realities,  and  who  was  yet  untouched  by  "the 
world's  slow  stain." 

And  so  it  came  about  that  Keith  Burgess  and  his 
mother,  who  had  been  dismayed  at  the  lack  of  conform- 
ity to  fashion  in  Anna's  dress  at  this  first  appearance  in 


148  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

their  world,  found  themselves  met,  the  service  over,  by 
men  and  women  who  had  admiration  and  interest,  sober 
and  sincere,  to  express,  and  much  to  say  aside  of  the 
singular  distinction,  the  aristocratic  dignity  and  charm, 
of  the  bride.  Madam  Burgess  was  not  slow  to  produce 
the  good  points  of  Anna's  ancestry  of  which  she  had 
quickly  possessed  herself,  thus  enhancing  the  favourable 
impression,  and  she  was  ready  to  accept  Anna,  cloak 
and  all,  herself,  when  the  son  of  one  of  Fulham's  leading 
men,  Pierce  Everett,  an  artist  newly  returned  from  Paris, 
came  to  her  with  a  respectful  but  eager  wish  that  Mrs. 
Keith  Burgess  would  at  some  future  day  grant  him  the 
notable  favour  of  sitting  to  him  for  some  saint's  face  and 
figure. 

There  was  a  little  crowd  about  them  as  they  passed 
out  to  their  carriage,  and  much  kind  and  deferential  cour- 
tesy pressing  upon  Anna's  notice.  A  group  of  young 
girls  on  the  church  steps  watched  her  with  shy,  awed 
glances,  and  murmured  to  each  other  that  they  adored 
her,  she  was  so  different  from  any  bride  they  had  ever 
seen  ;  she  was  grave  and  quiet,  and  something  of  pathos 
and  mystery  seemed  to  remove  her  far  from  the  conscious, 
fluttering  pink-and-white  brides  of  their  experience. 

The  young  artist,  Pierce  Everett,  joined  a  friend,  a 
professor  of  literature  in  the  local  university,  Nathan 
Ward,  as  he  walked  away  from  the  church. 

"What  a  study  for  a  saint!"  he  exclaimed,  with 
enthusiasm.  "I  did  not  suppose  there  was  such  a 
woman  left  in  the  world.  Where  can  she  have  been 
saved  up  to  keep  that  super-earthly  look  ?  " 

Professor  Ward  smiled.     After  a  silence  he  said,  — 

"  Here's  a  conundrum,  if  it  is  Sunday  :  Why  is  Keith 
Burgess  like  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  ?  " 


Afternoon 


:49 


The  answer  not  being  forthcoming,  Professor  Ward 
presently  volunteered  it. 

"  Because  he  has  espoused  Poverty,  Chastity,  and 
Obedience.      In   Mrs.   Keith  these  three  are  one." 

Fulham  was  a  small  city  with  a  college  of  no  great 
reputation,  which  called  itself  a  university  by  reason  of 
having  a  divinity  school  affiliated.  Furthermore  it  was 
a  seaboard  town  and  had  had  a  large  shipping  trade  in 
former  years,  now  slowly  dying  a  natural  death.      The 

aristocratic   circle   of   Fulham  —  there  was   but   one 

was  as  definitely  marked  and  as  strongly  defended  from 
invasion  as  it  is  possible  for  such  a  circle  to  be,  even 
in  an  old  New  England  town.  In  fact,  it  existed  more 
obviously  for  its  own  defence  and  preservation  from  the 
ineligible  than  for  any  other  reason;  and  only  two  classes 
of  citizens  were  eligible,  —  namely,  those  who  had  some 
connection  with  "the  university,"  and  those  who  in- 
herited either  poverty  or  riches  from  ancestors  engaged 
in  foreign  commerce.  These  two  agreed  in  one,  and 
agreed  to  rule  out  all  others.  Thus  the  aristocratic 
circle  was  necessarily  small  and  its  social  functions 
painfully  mechanical  and  monotonous ;  its  maidens 
were  proverbially  lacking  in  personal  charms,  and  its 
young  men,  with  rare  exceptions,  fled,  escaping  to  more 
interesting  and  varied  scenes  ;  but  it  was  supremely  satis- 
fied, rejoiced  in  the  distinction  of  its  unattainable  exclu- 
siveness,  and  looked  with  cold  and  unrelenting  disfavour 
upon  all  strangers,  newcomers,  or  fellow-citizens,  however 
meritorious,  who  failed  to  possess  the  sole  claims  to  its 
ranks. 

Madam  Burgess  enjoyed  a  double  title  to  membership 
in  this  exclusive  circle.     Her  fathers  before  her,  for  sev- 


150  A   Woman  of  Yesterday 

eral  generations,  had  been  shipowners  residing  in  the 
house  now  her  own,  to  which  her  husband,  the  Rever- 
end Elon  Burgess,  had  come,  as  an  eminently  suitable 
adjunct  upon  their  marriage.  Mr.  Burgess  hard  filled  a 
minor  chair  in  the  divinity  school  for  the  ten  years  of 
their  married  life ;  he  had  not  filled  even  this  particularly 
well,  being  a  man  of  small  calibre,  lacking  in  any  trace 
of  original  power  or  talent,  but  his  name  was  in  the 
university  catalogue,  and  hence  his  place  in  the  ranks 
of  Fulham's  high  social  circle  safe  forever.  But,  although 
of  limited  ability,  Professor  Burgess  was  fine  of  grain  and 
fine  of  habit,  and  sincerely  pious  in  a  day  when  to  be 
called  pious  did  not  awaken  a  smile.  In  the  fear  and 
faith  of  God  and  in  true  humility  he  had  lived  and 
died,  leaving  perhaps  no  very  large  and  irreparable 
vacancy,  and  no  overwhelming  sense  of  loss  or  desolation 
even  to  his  wife  and  son,  and  still  having  borne  — 

"  without  reproach 
The  fine  old  name  of  gentleman." 

As  a  girl  Sarah  Keith  had  given  satisfactory  evidence 
of  a  "  change  of  heart,"  and  in  a  time  of  profound  mis- 
sionary awakening  she  had  declared  herself  strongly  in 
sympathy  with  foreign  missions.  To  the  position  thus 
taken  she  had  consistently  adhered.  All  boards  and  aux- 
iliaries to  which  she  was  available  claimed  her  name  on 
their  lists.  Missionary  literature  was  always  scattered 
abundantly  in  her  library,  her  gifts  were  large,  and  her 
allegiance  to  religious  interests  was  so  completely  taken 
for  granted  that  it  would  no  more  have  been  questioned 
in  Fulham  than  her  place  in  its  aristocracy.  Certainly 
she  never  doubted  herself  that  she  was  essentially  a 
religious  woman.     Nevertheless,  religion,  whether  per- 


Afternoon  151 

sonal  or  in  its  outreaching  toward  a  world  which  she 
would  have  unhesitatingly  called  "  lost,"  consisted  for 
her  now  in  a  series  of  mechanical  observances,  and  in 
tenacious  orthodoxy  of  opinion  ;  it  had  become  a  dry 
husk  enclosing  a  dead  seed.  The  brief  blossoming  of 
the  religious  impulse  of  her  young  years  over,  she  had 
fixed  her  affections  on  the  small  adventitious  trappings 
of  "this  transitory  life,"  and  denied  unconsciously  the 
power  of  that  other  life,  the  form  of  which  she  so  punc- 
tiliously maintained. 

Her  invalidism  was  becoming,  not  inconvenient  on 
the  whole,  and  not  wholly  imaginary.  Such  was  the 
woman  who  was  now  by  the  ordering  of  Providence  to 
rule  and  direct  the  unfoldings  of  Anna's  early  woman- 
hood, since  Keith  Burgess  cherished  a  respect  and 
submission  to  his  mother  which  would  have  found 
something  akin  in  Chinese  ancestor-worship.  He  had 
reproduced  in  his  own  young  life  his  mother's  early 
missionary  fervour ;  that  it  was  long  dead  in  her  case 
he  did  not  suspect.  With  Keith  this  experience  had  re- 
ceived a  strong  accent  from  the  temper  of  his  college 
life,  and  from  the  possibility  of  an  actual  dedication  of 
himself  to  the  missionary  vocation.  It  had  thus  become, 
as  we  have  seen,  for  a  time  nobly  and  completely  domi- 
nant with  him,  the  strongest  passion  his  life  had  known. 
He  was  himself  surprised  to  find,  on  his  reaction  from 
the  crisis  of  loss  and  disappointment  connected  with  his 
illness  and  the  abandonment  of  a  missionary  career,  how 
natural  and,  on  the  whole,  how  satisfactory  it  was  to 
settle  back  into  his  own  place  in  his  old  home,  to  fall 
back  into  the  small,  comfortable  interests  of  Fulham, 
and  to  find  full  soon  an  aspect  of  unreality  and  even  of 
incongruity  clothing  his  former  ardent  dream. 


152  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

Not  so  Anna. 

The  ordered  precision,  the  formal,  stiff  monotony, 
repeated  day  after  day  in  her  husband's  home,  the  cold, 
conventional  courtesies,  the  absence  of  any  purpose  save 
to  maintain  things  in  existing  form  without  progress  or 
alteration,  for  a  time  exerted  upon  her  an  almost  para- 
lyzing effect.  A  torpid  dulness,  a  physical  oppression, 
came  upon  her  when  shut  up  alone  to  the  companion- 
ship of  Madam  Burgess,  against  which  she  found  it 
impossible  to  struggle  successfully.  Accustomed  to 
serious  mental  work,  to  much  strenuous  bodily  labour, 
to  the  wholesome  severity  of  long  walks  in  all  weathers, 
and  more  than  all  to  the  stimulus  of  a  great,  immediate 
purpose  ennobling  every  homeliest  task  and  smallest  ser- 
vice,—  the  present  life  of  inaction,  of  sluggish  ease,  of 
absence  of  responsibility  of  motive  or  purpose,  was  like 
the  life  of  a  prison.  A  heavy,  spiritless  apathy  overbore 
every  motion  to  fresh  endeavour  or  to  new  hopes  and 
incitements.  She  "  fluttered  and  failed  for  breath,"  and 
at  times  her  heart  seemed  bursting  with  its  longing,  the 
old  wild,  girlish  longing,  grown  still  and  deep,  for  free- 
dom and  for  power. 

With  mechanical  indifference  she  accompanied  Madam 
Burgess  on  her  daily  drives,  paid  and  received  visits, 
shopped,  and  attended  the  various  prescribed  social 
functions,  read  aloud  to  Keith,  and  made  a  feint  of  em- 
broidering the  great  ottoman  cover  which  her  mother- 
in-law  had  contrived  for  her  leisure.  It  was  a  stag's 
head  with  impossible  square  eyes,  the  head  partially 
surrounded  by  a  half-wreath  of  oak  leaves  and  acorns, 
staring  out  of  an  illimitable  field  of  small  red  stitches, 
numberless  as  the  sands  of  the  seashore,  and  significant, 
Anna  thought  wearily,  of  her  endless,  monotonous  hours. 


Afternoon  1 53 

All  the  while,  just  below  the  surface,  repeated 
through  the  long  days,  was  the  bitter  conflict  of  her 
spirit,  her  perpetual,  unanswered  questioning,  Why  had 
God  thus  dealt  with  her  ?  Why,  with  all  power 
to  save  or  heal,  had  he  permitted  the  illness  to  come 
upon  Keith  which  had  thus  brought  to  naught  what 
she  had  supposed  was  the  very  and  sacred  purpose  of 
her  creation. 

Upon  the  intensity  of  youth  and  a  nature  of  profound 
and  passionate  earnestness  this  thwarting  of  her  dedicated 
purpose,  this  apparent  rejection  of  herself  from  the  ser- 
vice of  God,  worked  piteous  havoc.  Anna  did  not  grow 
sullen  or  rebellious,  but  she  felt  her  whole  interior  life 
to  be  in  hopeless  confusion.  Her  sense  of  an  immediate 
and  personal  relation  to  a  fatherly  God  had  suffered  some- 
thing like  an  earthquake  shock.  All  the  high  faith,  the 
sacred  and  filial  purpose,  the  profound  self-dedication  of 
her  girlhood,  seemed  to  have  been  flung  aside  by  the  God 
whom  she  had  sought  to  know  and  serve,  with  cold,  blank 
indifference,  without  sign  or  suggestion  of  pity,  of  love, 
or  of  amends.  The  God  of  whom  Mrs.  Westervelt  had 
taught  her,  a  conception  which  she  had  gradually  ab- 
sorbed and  assimilated  as  her  own,  a  God  closer  than 
breathing,  nearer  than  hands  and  feet,  to  whom  the  heart 
was  never  lifted  in  vain,  whose  presence  could  be  indu- 
bitably felt  and  known,  who  answered  every  holy  and 
devout  prayer  of  his  children,  and  who  led  them  imme- 
diately in  every  thought  and  action — where  was  he? 
Either  he  existed  only  in  imagination,  or  she  was  herself 
rejected  by  him  as  unworthy ;  and,  in  a  depth  below 
the  depth  of  burning  grief,  she  saw  her  father  likewise 
despised  and  rejected. 

A   great    protest,   honest    and    indignant,    rose    up   in 


154  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

Anna's  heart.  She  knew  that,  as  far  as  mortal  man 
could  be  holy  and  harmless  in  the  eyes  of  his  God,  her 
father  had  been  ;  and  she  knew  that  her  own  purposes 
had  been  blameless  and  sincere.  She  refused  to  quibble 
with  herself  in  regard  to  these  facts  ;  something  staunch 
and  sturdy  in  her  mental  constitution  —  not  obstinacy, 
not  pride,  but  sheer  inward  honesty  —  refused  to  seek 
accommodation  in  any  forced  paroxysm  of  humility  or 
blind  submission.  With  a  sorrow  which  a  lighter  nature 
could  not  have  comprehended,  but  with  characteristic 
conclusiveness,  she  said  to  herself,  the  stress  of  her 
inward  conflict  spent,  "I  do  not  know  God,"  and 
composed  her  spirit  in  silence  to  wait. 

At  the  end  of  a  month  Keith  returned  to  his  class  in 
the  Massachusetts  Divinity  School,  with  which  he  was 
to  graduate  in  June.  Immediately  thereafter  he  expected 
to  enter  upon  the  duties  of  his  missionary  secretaryship, 
and  make  his  home  in  Fulham  with  his  wife  and 
mother. 

Thrown  thus  upon  the  sole  companionship  of  Madam 
Burgess,  and  forced  either  to  make  the  best  of  the  sit- 
uation or  to  appear  the  crude,  undisciplined  provincial 
who  sullenly  refuses  to  adapt  herself  to  new  conditions, 
Anna's  native  good  sense  came  to  her  rescue.  With 
strong  will  she  crowded  down  her  mental  conflict,  while 
with  conscientious  earnestness  she  addressed  herself  to 
the  duty  of  making  herself  a  cheerful  and  sympathetic 
companion  to  her  husband's  mother,  and  of  filling  the 
social  position  in  which  she  was  undeniably  placed,  how- 
ever inscrutable  the  reasons  therefor.  New  influences 
came  out  to  meet  and  win  her  on  every  side,  and  she 
responded  with  a  social  grace,  and  even  facility,  which 
amazed  all  who  had  seen  her  first  as  the  cold,  pale,  silent 


Afternoon 


*SS 


girl  whose  marriage  altar  had  seemed  rather  an  altar  of 
sacrifice. 

An  effect  of  singular  charm  was  produced  by  this 
new  mental  attitude,  the  opening  out  of  a  nature  until 
now  so  closely  sealed.  The  native  seriousness,  the  fine, 
direct  simplicity,  of  Anna's  girlhood  remained;  but  they 
seemed  flooded  with  a  new  and  warmer  light,  welcome 
as  daily  sunshine  while  the  hardness,  the  rigour,  and  the 
severity  melted  away.  She  submitted  without  further 
protest  to  the  comparative  luxury  of  her  surroundings, 
found  it  surprisingly  agreeable,  and  discovered  a  fresh, 
forgotten  joy  in  simple  physical  existence,  which  carried 
her  bravely  through  the  long,  dull  days  of  the  Burgess 
order  of  life. 

Notwithstanding  all  these  things,  below  the  surface  of 
her  life,  often  below  the  surface  of  her  thought,  lay  an 
unplumbed  depth  of  spiritual  loneliness,  a  sense  of  double 
orphanhood,  a  voice  which  cried  and  would  not  be 
stilled  ;  for  while  men  and  women  had  come  near,  of 
God  she  had  become  shy,  feeling  toward  him  as  toward 
a  dearest  friend  grown  cold. 

But  one  night,  as  she  lay  alone  and  wakeful,  tears 
painful,  not  easily  flowing,  wetting  her  pillow,  a  sudden 
thought  stung  her  by  its  throbbing  wonder  and  delight, 
seeming  great  enough  to  reconcile  all  things,  even  God, 
who  had  filled  her  with  bitterness,  and  hedged  her  about 
in  all  her  ways. 

She  said  to  herself,  "  It  may  be  I  shall  have  a  child," 
and  the  deep  places  of  her  nature  called  to  each  other  in 
joy  and  exultation  ;  and  she  knew  that,  if  this  grace 
should  be  given  her,  all  would  yet  be  clear,  and  she  could 
still  believe  in  God's  love,  and  in  his  purpose  in  her 
life. 


156  A  Woman   of  Yesterday 

So,  blindly  groping  through  the  rough  and  thorny 
way  by  which  humanity  has  sought  God  through  many 
ages,  this  human  soul,  sincere  and  humble,  perpetuated 
the  heart-breaking  fallacy  of  conditioning  the  Divine 
Love,  the  Eternal  Power  and  Godhead,  on  the  small 
mutations  of  her  own  life,  seen  at  short  range. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

Affections,  Instincts,  Principles,  and   Powers, 
Impulse  and  Reason,  Freedom  and  Control  — 
So  men,  unravelling  God's  harmonious  whole, 
Rend  in  a  thousand  shreds  this  life  of  ours. 
Vain  labour  !      Deep  and  broad,  where  none  may  see, 
Spring  the  foundations  of  that  shadowy  throne 
Where  man's  one  nature,  queen-like,  sits  alone, 
Centred  in  a  majestic  unity. 

—  Matthew  Arnold. 

To  some  minds  there  is  nothing  more  pathetic  in 
human  experience  than  the  patient  resignation  with 
which  average  men  and  women  accommodate  them- 
selves to  the  most  disastrous  and  distorting  of  griefs 
and  disappointments,  nothing  more  amazing  than  their 
power  to  endure.  If  something  of  the  brute  nature  is 
in  us  all,  it  is  not  always  and  altogether  the  animalhood 
of  greed  or  of  ferocity,  but  far  more  commonly  the 
mute,  uncomprehending  submission  of  sheep  and  oxen. 
Though  the  futility  of  revolt  is  so  apparent,  the  infre- 
quency  of  it  in  human  lives  does  not  cease  to  surprise. 
The  modern  Rachel  mourns  for  her  children,  and  will 
not  be  comforted,  but  she  goes  about  the  streets  in  con- 
ventional mourning,  orders  her  house  with  decent  regu- 
larity, and  probably,  in  the  end,  goes  abroad  for  a  time, 
and  returning,  enters  with  apparent  cheerfulness  into  the 
social  round.  The  modern  Guelph  or  Ghibelline,  ban- 
ished from  the  political  or  intellectual  activities  which 
made  life  to  him,  finds  readily  that  raving  against  time 
and  fate  is  no  longer  good   form,  reads  his  daily  paper 

iS7 


158  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

with  unabated  interest,  and  enjoys  a  good  dinner  with 
appetite  unimpaired.  Very  probably  the  man's  and  the 
woman's  heart  is  broken  in  each  instance,  but  what 
then  ?  Life  goes  on,  and  the  resiliency  of  the  main- 
spring in  a  well-adjusted  piece  of  human  mechanism 
may  be  usually  guaranteed,  with  safety,  to  last  a  life- 
time. 

In  a  year  after  her  marriage  Anna  Burgess  was  dili- 
gently at  work  along  the  conventional  lines  of  activity  of 
her  day  for  religious  young  women  at  home,  —  writing 
missionary  reports,  distributing  literature,  collecting  dues. 
She  saw  nothing  better  to  do.  Her  own  private  and 
innermost  relation  to  God,  it  was  true,  had  been  dislo- 
cated, but  the  heathen  remained  to  be  saved. 

One  morning,  Keith  being  away  from  home,  Anna 
came  into  Madam  Burgess's  sitting  room,  her  cheeks 
slightly  flushed,  her  eyes  shining,  a  letter  in  hand. 

"  May  I  read  you  this  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly  ;  "  I  have 
been  invited  to  give  an  address  at  the  foreign  missionary 

conference  next  month   in   H .      What  if  I  could  ! 

I  should  be  so  glad."  Her  eyes  told  the  new  and  eager 
hope  which  this  summons  had  stirred  within  her. 

An  added  degree  of  frost  settled  upon  her  mother-in- 
law's  face. 

"  You  can  hardly  mean,  Anna,"  she  said,  "  that  you 
would  be  willing  to  speak  in  public  ?  " 

"  But  our  missionaries  do,  and  sometimes  others," 
Anna  replied  anxiously. 

"  The  case  of  missionaries  is,  of  course,  entirely  excep- 
tional; and  they  should  never  be  heard,  in  my  opinion, 
before  mixed  audiences.  As  for  other  women  making- 
spectacles  of  themselves,  it  would  seem  to  be  enough  to 
remind  you,  Anna,  of  the  words  of  the  Apostle  Paul  on 


Afternoon  i^o 

that  subject.     You  would    hardly  attempt,  I  think,  to 
explain  them  away." 

Anna  was  silent. 

"  A  woman  who  has  a  noble  Christian  husband,  my 
dear,"  continued  Madam  Burgess,  more  gently,  feeling 
her  case  now  won,  "  as  you  have,  who  is  already  at  work 
in  this  very  field  of  labour,  has  no  occasion  to  leave  the 
sacred  shelter  of  her  own  home,  and  lift  up  her  voice 
and  exhibit  her  person  in  public  gatherings." 

"  Keith  always  said  that  I  might  still  have  a  chance 
to. do  a  little  work  in  this  way ;  I  am  sure  he  approved," 
and  Anna's  low  voice  faltered,  her  heart  full  just  then  of 
the  memory  of  those  first  days  of  their  common  sorrow. 

"You  have  a  very  indulgent  husband,  and  it  is  not 
strange  if,  in  the  first  fond  days  of  your  married  life,  he 
may  have  unwisely  yielded  to  some  mistaken  sense  of 
duty  on  your  part,  and  apparently  committed  himself  to 
a  purpose  which  he  would  later  realize  to  be  impracti- 
cable. Understand  me  clearly,  my  dear,"  and  the  term 
of  endearment  sounded,  from  Madam  Burgess's  lips,  as 
sharp  as  the  point  of  an  icicle,  "  my  son's  wife  can  never, 
without  flying  in  the  face  of  all  her  holiest  obligations, 
both  to  God  and  man,  present  herself  before  an  audience 
of  people  as  a  public  speaker.  A  woman  who  does  this 
violates  the  very  law  of  her  being,  she  ceases  to  be 
womanly,  ceases  to  be  modest,  and  loses  all  that  femi- 
nine delicacy  which  is  woman's  chief  ornament." 

The  finality  of  these  remarks  clearly  perceived,  Anna 
rose  from  her  chair,  and  left  the  room  in  silence.  She 
never  returned  to  the  subject,  but  simply  buried  in  her 
heart  one  more  high  hope  of  service. 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Anna's  inexperience  and 
young  ardour  had  joined  direct  issue  with  Madam  Bur- 


160  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

gess's  social  creed.  For  a  while  everything  had  gone  so 
smoothly  that  Anna's  first  sense  of  disparity  had  been 
soothed  to  rest ;  all  things  being  new,  she  had  failed  to 
see  the  full  significance  of  certain  limitations  which 
hedged  her  in.  Little  by  little  she  learned  this,  and 
learned  the  inevitable  submission.  She  never  appealed 
to  Keith  from  his  mother,  controlled  by  a  sense  of  the 
essential  ugliness  and  vulgarity  of  a  domestic  situation 
in  which  the  different  elements  are  working  and  inter- 
working  at  variance  with  each  other.  Furthermore,  she 
learned  very  soon  that,  however  sympathetic  and  gentle 
Keith  might  show  himself  toward  her,  he  would,  in 
the  end,  range  himself  on  his  mother's  side  of  every 
question. 

Stratagem  and  indirection  were  alike  alien  to  Anna's 
nature  and  habit,  but  she  inevitably  learned,  in  process 
of  time  and  experience,  to  avoid  leading  Madam  Burgess 
to  a  declaration  of  definite  positions,  while  she  sought  to 
enlist  her  husband's  sympathies  in  her  own  undertakings 
before  his  mother  was  made  acquainted  with  them.  Any 
plan  which  was  brought  before  her  by  her  son  was  com- 
paratively acceptable  to  the  elder  woman.  Thus  wisely 
ordering  her  goings  as  women  learn  to  do,  Anna  succeeded 
in  reaching  a  fair  degree  of  independence  and  at  the  same 
time  a  harmonious  outward  order.  Her  sacrifices  and 
disappointments,  the  gradual  paring  down  of  her  larger 
hopes  and  the  dimming  of  her  finer  aspirations,  she  kept 
to  herself. 

Pierce  Everett,  the  young  artist  who  had  spoken  of 
Anna's  fitness  for  a  model  of  a  saint,  had  carried  out 
his  purpose,  and  had  formally  requested  her  to  pose  for 
him.  With  the  cordial  approval  of  both  Madam  Burgess 
and   Keith,  Anna  had  consented,  and  late  in   the  winter 


Afternoon  161 

the  sittings  began  in  Everett's  studio,  which  was  in  his 
father's  house.  Madam  Burgess  brought  Anna  to  the 
house  for  the  first  sitting.  They  were  received  by  the 
mother  of  the  artist,  an  intimate  friend  of  Madam  Burgess, 
and  the  older  ladies  then  laughingly  gave  Anna  over  into 
Everett's  hands  while  they  enjoyed  a  discussion  of  cer- 
tain benevolent  committee  matters. 

In  the  studio  a  little  talk  ensued  regarding  the  pro- 
jected sittings,  and  various  considerations  involved  in 
them.  These  matters  understood,  Anna  said  com- 
posedly :  — 

"  I  am  ready,  Mr.  Everett,  if  you  will  tell  me  just 
what  you  wish.  I  do  not  even  know  for  what  I  am  to 
be  painted." 

"  And  you  will  not  object,  Mrs.  Burgess,"  said 
Everett,  quickly,  "  if  I  do  not  tell  you  now  ?  It  is  in 
a  character  which  could  not,  I  am  sure,  displease  you, 
but  I  think  it  would  be  decidedly  better  that  we  should 
not  discuss  it,  and  that  you  should  have  no  definite 
thought  of  it.      Is  this  satisfactory  to  you  ?  " 

"  Entirely  so." 

"  Very  well." 

Immediately  upon  this  Everett  took  his  place  at  the 
easel  and  began  a  first  rapid  sketch  of  Anna's  head.  He 
was  a  slight  fellow,  below  the  medium  height,  with  a 
delicate,  almost  transparent  face,  a  red  Vandyke  beard, 
and  large  and  brilliant  brown  eyes.  Quick  and  nervous 
in  speech  and  gesture,  he  had  the  clear-cut  precision  of  a 
man  who  knows  both  his  means  and  his  end. 

Anna  thought  him  very  interesting. 

At  the  second  sitting  their  talk  chanced  to  turn  upon 
the  relation  of  the  ideals  of  men  and  women  to  their 
practical  lives,  and  Everett  told  Anna  the  old  story  of 


1 62  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

Carcassonne,  which  was  new  to  her.  The  train  of 
thought  thus  suggested  soon  absorbed  her,  so  that  she 
forgot  him  and  what  he  was  doing.  The  sacred  hope 
of  her  own  life,  yet  unfulfilled,  still  centring  in  the  hope 
of  her  father,  the  ever  receding  purpose  of  which  she 
never  spoke,  cast  its  powerful   influence  upon  her. 

For  half  an  hour  neither  spoke.  Then  Everett's 
friend,  Professor  Ward,  came  into  the  room  in  familiar 
fashion,  and  the  two  men  talked  of  many  things. 

When  Anna  left  Nathan  Ward  said,  looking  over  his 
friend's  shoulder :  — 

"  If  you  can  keep  that  look,  you  will  make  a  great 
picture."  Then  he  added,  "  But  don't  fail  to  get  her 
hands.     They  have  the  same  expression." 

After  that  it  became  an  habitual  thing  for  Ward  to 
drop  into  the  studio  at  these  sittings.  It  never  occurred 
to  Anna  that  her  presence  had  anything  to  do  with  his 
coming.  She  supposed  he  had  always  come.  He  talked 
very  little  with  her,  but  she  liked  to  listen  to  his  talk 
with  Everett.  It  was  distinctly  novel  to  her  —  light, 
rambling,  touch-and-go,  and  yet  full  of  underlying 
thought  and  suggestion.  Anna  had  known  few  men 
at  best,  none  of  the  order  to  which  these  two  belonged, 
men  conversant  with  art  and  literature,  music  and 
poetry,  and  modern  life  on  all  its  sides.  Much  that 
they  said  puzzled  and  perplexed  her,  but  she  found  an 
eager  enjoyment  in  it. 

Then  one  day  Professor  Ward  said  to  her,  apropos  of 
Shelley,  of  whom  they  had  been  speaking :  — 

"  You  do  not  join  in  this  discussion,  Mrs.  Burgess. 
I  am  quite  sure  you  could  give  us  opinions  much  wiser 
than  ours." 

Anna's  colour  deepened  as  she  answered  :  — 


Afternoon  163 

"  I  have  not  read  Shelley  in  a  great  many  years.  In- 
deed, I  know  nothing  of  literature." 

There  was  a  little  silence;  Anna  hesitated,  half 
inclined  to  say  a  word  in  explanation  of  a  fact  which 
she  plainly  saw  the  two  men  found  very  surprising,  but 
finally,  finding  the  explanation  too  personal  and  too  seri- 
ous, remained  silent. 

As  she  started  to  walk  home  from  the  Everetts',  Pro- 
fessor Ward  joined  her,  asking  to  walk  with  her.  He 
was  a  man  of  forty,  with  a  wife  and  a  flock  of  little 
children.     Anna  knew  the  family  slightly,  but  pleasantly. 

"  Mrs.  Burgess,"  the  professor  began,  as  they  walked 
down  the  quiet  street,  "  I  do  not  want  to  intrude  or  to 
be  found  inquisitive,  but  I  am  so  puzzled  by  what  you 
said  a  little  while  ago  that  I  really  wish  you  felt  inclined 
to  enlighten  me.  I  know  you  never  speak  with  the 
exaggeration  and  inaccuracy  which  is  so  much  the  habit 
of  young  ladies,  and  so  I  accept  what  you  said  as  to  your 
ignorance  of  literature  as  sober  truth.  But  you  are  a 
well-educated  woman.      How  can  it  be  ?  " 

Anna  was  almost  glad  of  a  chance  to  explain.  She 
was  facing  many  new  questions  in  these  days,  and  she 
felt  the  need  of  light.  She  answered  therefore  at  once, 
with  frankness  :  — 

"  I  deliberately  gave  up  study  on  all  these  lines  when 
I  became  a  Christian.  I  supposed  them  to  be  contrary 
to  the  absolute  consecration  of  my  life  to  God." 

Professor  Ward  looked  perplexed. 

"  You  cannot  understand,"  Anna  said  timidly.  «  I 
have  felt  since  I  have  been  in  Fulham  as  if  the  language 
of  my  religious  life  in  those  days  would  be  an  unknown 
tongue  here.  I  see  that  lam  right.  To  you,  Professor 
Ward,  I  am  sure  such  a  sense  of  duty  as  I  speak  of  is 


164  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

unintelligible,  but  I  can  still  say  it  was  sincere.  And  it 
was  not  an  easy  sacrifice  to  make,  for  I  had  already 
grown  fond  of  poetry,  and  longed  to  know  more  in  a 
way  I  could  never  express." 

"  I  see,"  said  her  companion,  gravely  ;  "  you  felt  that 
the  study  of  the  work  of  men  like  most  of  our  poets, 
whose  religious  positions  were  vague  and  not  formulated 
according  to  our  creeds,  was  likely  to  act  unfavourably 
upon  your  spiritual  life  and  experience." 

"  Yes.  To  divide  my  heart,  to  dim  my  sense  of  a 
one,  single  aim  in  life." 

"  And  that  aim  ?  " 

"  To  serve  God  directly  in  every  thought  and  word. 
That,  and  to  try  to  save  the  souls  of  the  lost." 

Professor  Ward  had  no  key  to  the  profound  sadness 
with  which  Anna  spoke,  but  he  watched  her  face  with 
earnest  interest.  She  spoke  with  the  unconsciousness 
of  absolute  sincerity.  He  was  reflecting,  however,  on 
how  much  easier  life  might  be  if  one  could  sustain,  un- 
disturbed, such  bare  simplicity  of  conception  of  human 
relations. 

"  And  so,"  he  said  slowly,  "  you  were  going  to 
prune  away  every  instinct,  every  faculty  of  your  na- 
ture which  did  not  serve  the  immediate  purpose  of 
furthering  what  men  call  sometimes  l  the  cause  of  reli- 
gion,' and  know  and  feel  and  be  one  thing  only  ?  " 

Anna  bent  her  head  in  assent. 

"  That  is  precisely  what  men  and  women  do  who 
seek  monastic  life." 

Anna  looked  up  at  Professor  Ward  in  quick  surprise 
and  instinctive  protest. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  emphasis,  "  it  was  just  as  noble 
and  just  as  cowardly,  just  as  weak  and  just  as  strong,  as 


Afternoon  165 

the  impulses  which  make  monks  and  nuns.  It  is  what 
people  do  who  are  afraid  of  life,  who  do  not  dare  to 
encounter  the  whole  of  it,  who  have  not  reached  the 
highest  faith  in  either  God  or  man." 

"  Then  you  think  such  a  resolution,  such  a  scheme 
of  life,  produces  weak  natures,  not  strong  ones  ?  "  asked 
Anna,  looking  up  with  her  honest,  steadfast  gaze  into 
his  eyes. 

"  I  should  say  narrow  natures,  and  yet  I  fear  I  ought 
to  say  weak  ones  too.  Mrs.  Burgess,  do  you  not  see 
yourself  the  weakness,  the  narrowness,  of  the  position  ? 
It  is  what  might  be  called  the  department  system  of 
human  life,"  and  Professor  Ward,  with  rapid  gestures, 
indicated  the  drawing  of  sharp  lines.  "  It  is  as  if  you 
said  to  your  ego,  your  soul  —  yourself — whatever, — 
Go  to  now,  this  department  of  your  life  is  religious  ;  it 
sings  hymns,  reads  a  collection  of  sacred  writings  at  regu- 
lar hours,  prays,  gives  away  money  to  build  churches, 
and  performs  various  other  exercises  definitely  stamped 
as  godly.  This  other  department  loves  nature,  exults  in 
beauty,  pours  itself  into  poetic  thought,  rejoices  in  music, 
expresses  itself  in  art:  but  all  this  is  secular,  pagan  — 
all  men  may  have  this  in  common  who  have  not  accepted 
my  particular  conception  of  the  divine  nature  and  its 
dealings  with  men  ;  consequently  all  this  is  to  be  cut  ofF 
—  effaced,  fought  with  to  the  death.      Am  I  right  ?  " 

Anna  nodded,  her  face  very  grave,  her  breath  quick- 
ened. 

"  Does  that  seem  to  you  a  reasonable  or  even  a  noble 
conception  ?  There  was  nobleness,  I  grant  you,  in  the 
struggle,  just  as  there  was  in  the  fortitude  of  the  Spar- 
tans ;  but  who  feels  now  a  desire  to  imitate  that  sheer, 
barbaric  effacing   of   human    feeling?     No,  no.      That 


1 66  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

day  has  passed.  We  can  begin  to  see  life  whole  to-day ; 
we  can  see  God  in  nature,  in  poetry,  in  beauty,  in  ugli- 
ness even.  He  is  all  and  in  all.  All  things  are  ours 
and  we  are  God's  !  I  wish  I  could  make  this  clear  to 
you." 

"  You  have,  in  part,"  said  Anna,  simply. 

"  No  way,  however  tortuous,  by  which  men  have 
groped  after  God  can  be  indifferent  to  us,  if  we  have  the 
right  sense  of  humanity.  Trust  yourself,  Mrs.  Burgess; 
trust  the  human  heart  throughout  the  ages.  Believe  me, 
with  all  the  drawbacks,  all  the  falls,  and  all  the  blunders, 
it  has  been  an  honest  heart  and  is  worthy  of  reverence 
and  devout  study.  l  Trust  God :  see  all,  nor  be 
afraid.'  " 

"  I  have  seen  only  one  side  of  life,  one  conception  of 
human  nature." 

"  That,  at  least,  was  a  high  and  lofty  one.  For  stern 
heroism  of  thought,  commend  me  to  that  old  New  Eng- 
land Calvinism  in  which  I  see  you  were  nurtured.  It 
was  fine;  I  glory  in  it,  just  as  I  glory  in  heroism  every- 
where, builded  up  on  however  mistaken  a  foundation. 
The  worst  of  it,  however,  is  that  it  completely  deceives 
the  human  heart  as  to  itself.  It  is  terrible  in  its  power 
to  mislead.  The  elect  are  not  as  elect  by  half  as  they 
suppose.  Calvin  himself  helped  to  burn  Servetus,  which 
was  not  really  fine  of  him,  you  know.  But  I  have  said 
enough.      I  hope  I  have  not  wounded  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  said  Anna,  smiling  faintly,  "  but 
I  am  amazed  beyond  everything.  All  that  you  say  is 
so  new." 

They  had  reached  Professor  Ward's  house,  which 
was  very  near  that  of  Madam  Burgess. 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  in  a  moment,"  said  Ward, 


Afternoon  167 

very  gently ;  "  you  know  my  wife  always  likes  to  see 
you,  and  I  want  to  show  you  some  books  in  which  I 
think  you  would  be  interested." 

Without  reply,  Anna  passed  through  the  gate  which 
he  held  open  for  her,  and  they  entered  the  house  to- 
gether. Mrs.  Ward  met  them,  and  they  all  went  into 
the  professor's  study. 

In  a  few  moments  Anna  was  lost  in  the  realm  of 
books  so  long  self-closed  to  her  experience.  She  sat  at 
his  desk,  and  Ward  handed  her  and  heaped  about  her 
rare  and  beautiful  volumes  until  she  became  bewildered 
with  the  sense  of  intellectual  richness  and  complexity. 
She  looked  up  at  last,  as  he  bent  over  her,  turning  the 
leaves  of  a  beautiful  old  Italian  edition  of  Dante's 
"  Commedia,"  and,  with  a  smile  beneath  which  her  lips 
trembled,  she  asked,  like  a  child  :  — 

"Tell  me  truly,  is  all  this  for  me,  righteously, 
safely  ?  " 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  ?  "  he  asked  gently.  "  '  All  things 
are  yours,  and  you  are  Christ's,  and  Christ  is  God's.'  " 

With  that  day  Anna  returned  to  the  long-sealed  books 
of  her  father's  love  and  her  own.  She  read  and  studied 
under  Professor  Ward's  guidance  and  direction,  steadily 
and  with  eager  delight.  She  did  this  with  no  further 
misgiving  or  doubt.  He  had  succeeded  in  satisfying  her 
conscience,  and  she  moved  joyfully  along  the  clear  lines 
of  her  inherited  intellectual  choice. 

As  for  her  father  and  the  example  of  renunciation  he 
had  given  her,  her  heart  was  at  rest.  That  which  was 
perfect  being  come  for  him,  was  not  that  which  had 
been  in  part  done  away  ? 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

Are  you  the  new  person  drawn  toward  me  ? 

To  begin  with  take  warning,  I  am  surely  far  different  from  what  you  suppose ; 

Do  you  suppose  you  will  find  in  me  your  ideal  ? 

Do  you  think  the  friendship  of  me  would  be  unalloyed  satisfaction  ? 

Do  you  see  no  further  than  this  facade,  this  smooth  and  tolerant  manner  of  me  ? 
Do  you  suppose  yourself  advancing  on  real  ground  toward  a  real  heroic  man  ? 
Have  you  no  thought,  O  dreamer,  that  it  may  be  all  maya,  illusion  ? 

—  Walt  Whitman. 

In  her  sittings  in  the  studio  of  Pierce  Everett,  Anna 
had  found  from  time  to  time  numbers  of  an  English 
magazine  devoted  to  social  reform.  Some  of  these,  at 
Everett's  suggestion,  she  had  taken  home  with  her  and 
read  with  care.  Coming  to  the  studio  one  May  after- 
noon, for  the  work  had  been  laid  aside  for  a  time  for 
various  reasons,  and  only  resumed  with  the  spring,  Anna 
laid  down  on  a  table  three  or  four  of  these  magazines 
with  the  remark  :  — 

"  I  wish  I  knew  who  John  Gregory  is." 

Everett  glanced  up  quickly. 

"  I  mean  the  man  who  wrote  those  articles  on  the 
4  Social  Ideals  of  Jesus,'  "  added  Anna. 

"  Do  you  like  them  ?  "  asked  Everett. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  to  answer  that  question,"  said 
Anna,  musingly  ;  "  perhaps  you  hardly  can  say  you  like 
what  makes  you  thoroughly  uncomfortable.  What  he 
says  of  the  immorality  of  a  life  of  selfish  ease  appeals  to 
me  powerfully." 

1 68 


Afternoon  1 69 

"  It  is  a  great  arraignment,"  said  Everett,  working  on 
in  apparent  absorbedness. 

"  What  stirs  me  so  deeply,"  continued  Anna,  "  is 
that  this  writer  not  only  says  what  I  believe  to  be  true, 
but  that  he  makes  you  feel  a  sense  of  power,  authority, 
finality  almost,  in  the  way  he  says  it.  And  by  that,  you 
know,  I  do  not  mean  that  he  is  authoritative  or  auto- 
cratic ;  it  is  simply  that  he  writes  as  one  who  sees,  who 
knows,  who  has  gone  beyond  the  mists  of  doubt  and  has 
a  clear  vision. 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Mrs.  Burgess,"  said  Everett, 
quietly,  looking  up  from  his  work,  his  eyes  kindling 
with  unwonted  light.  "  John  Gregory  is  a  man  of  his 
generation  —  a  seer;  as  you  say,  one  who  sees.  He  is 
my  master.  You  did  not  know,  perhaps,  that  I  am  a 
socialist  ?  " 

"  No,"  Anna  said  simply ;  "  I  do  not  even  rightly 
know  what  a  socialist  is." 

"It  is,  as  far  as  my  personal  definition  is  concerned, 
—  there  are  a  dozen  others,  —  a  man  who  believes  that 
the  aim  of  individual  and  private  gain  and  advantage, 
to  the  ignoring  of  the  interests  of  his  fellow-men,  is 
immoral ;  this,  whether  it  is  the  struggle  for  the  man's 
salvation  in  a  future  life,  or  his  social  or  material  ad- 
vancement  in  this." 

Anna  looked  very  sober.  In  a  moment  of  silence, 
she  was  asking  herself,  "  I  wonder  what  becomes  of 
people  who  are  forced  into  lives  of  selfish  inaction  ; 
who  have  to  live  luxuriously  when  they  don't  want  to  ; 
who  are  obliged  to  go  in  carriages  when  they  far  prefer 
walking ;  and  who  find  their  hands  tied  whenever  they 
seek  any  line  of  effort  not  absolutely  conventional  ?  " 

Looking  up  then  with  a  sudden  smile,  she  exclaimed, 


170  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  this  Mr.  Gregory  a  few  ques- 
tions ! " 

"  Perhaps  you  may  be  able  to  some  time.  He  is  in 
this  country  now,  and  he  is  so  good  as  to  honour  me 
with  his  personal  friendship.  However,  he  passes  like 
night  from  land  to  land ;  one  can  never  count  upon  his 
coming,  or  plan  for  his  staying  an  hour.  But  if  I 
can  bring  it  about,  Mrs.  Burgess,  you  shall  meet  some 
time." 

"Thank  you.  What  is  he  ?  A  clergyman,  a  teacher, 
or  what  ?  " 

"  You  found  something  a  little  sermonic  in  his  arti- 
cles ?  "  and  Everett  smiled.  "  I  believe  he  can  never 
throw  it  off  entirely.  He  is  an  Oxford  man,  a  scholar, 
and  a  writer  on  sociology.  He  is  first  and  last  and 
always,  however,  a  Christian  in  the  purest  and  most 
practical  sense." 

"  That  seemed  to  me  unmistakable." 

"  He  used  to  be  a  preacher ;  in  fact,  he  was  for  a  num- 
ber of  years  a  famous  evangelist  in  England,  and  also 
in  this  country.  He  was  led  into  that  work  by  a  sense 
of  obligation.  I  should  almost  think  you  must  have 
heard  of  his  wonderful  success.  John  Gregory  —  his 
name  was  in  everybody's  mouth  a  few  years  ago." 

Anna  tried  to  recall  some  vague  sense  of  association 
with  the  name,  which  failed  to  declare  itself  plainly. 

"  He  was  holding  great  revival  meetings  somewhere 
in  New  England,  simply  sweeping  everything  before 
him  ;  all  the  great  cities  were  seeking  him,  you  know 
his  income  could  have  been  almost  anything  he  would 
have  made  it.  All  this  I  know,  but  I  never  heard  a 
word  of  it  from  Gregory  himself." 

"  He  is  not  doing  this  still  ?  " 


Afternoon  171 

"  I  will  tell  you.  Really  to  understand,  you  must  try 
to  imagine  something  of  the  man's  personality.  He  has 
in  the  highest  degree  that  indefinable  quality  which  we 
usually  call  magnetism.  He  has  an  almost  irresistible  per- 
sonal influence  with  many  people.  Well,  on  a  certain 
night,  four  or  five  years  ago,  I  should  think,  during  the 
course  of  a  most  successful  meeting,  it  suddenly  became 
clear  to  him  that  he  was  bringing  the  people  in  that  audi- 
ence to  a  religious  crisis,  and  to  a  committal  of  themselves 
to  a  profession  of  a  knowledge  of  God,  by  doubtful  means. 
I  cannot  tell  you  the  details,  I  have  forgotten  them ;  but 
I  know  that  he  went  through  something  like  agony  in 
that  meeting,  and  that  in  saying  the  words  '  The  Spirit 
is  here,'  he  had  an  overwhelming  sense  of  presumption 
and  even  of  blasphemy.  He  did  not  know  that  the 
Spirit  was  present.  He  was  not  sure  but  the  influence 
at  work  was  the  product  of  music,  of  oratory,  of  his 
own  will  and  personality,  of  the  contagion  of  an  excited 
crowd — in  short,  was  purely  human.  If  this  were  so, 
what  could  the  results  be  but  confusion  and  dismay 
when  the  hour  of  reaction  should  come  ?  He  was 
borne  down  by  a  sense  of  pity  and  remorse  even  for 
the  coming  spiritual  doubts  and  struggles  of  the  people 
who  were  at  that  hour  placed  almost  helplessly  in  his 
hands,  and  abruptly  he  left  the  place  —  hall,  whatever 
it  was.  That  night  in  his  hotel  he  made  no  attempt 
to  sleep,  but  studied  the  situation,  its  dangers,  its  losses, 
its  benefits,  with  the  result  that  he  never  again  held  that 
order  of  revival  meetings.  Whatever  good  other  men 
might  do  with  the  forces  at  work  and  put  into  their 
hands  to  wield  at  such  crises,  for  himself  he  was  con- 
vinced that  the  human  had  usurped  the  divine,  and  made 
of   him,    not   only    an    unauthorized    experimenter  with 


172  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

souls,  but  a  violator  of  their  sacred  rights,  albeit  hitherto 
unconsciously  to  himself." 

"  What  has  he  been  doing  since  ?  " 

"  Studying.  He  has  gone  deeply  into  social  and  reli- 
gious problems,  has  travelled  largely,  has  seen  and  talked 
with  many  of  the  most  famous  leaders  of  modern  thought, 
and  I  think  he  has  now  some  large  plans  which  are 
maturing  slowly.  Meanwhile  he  writes  such  things  as 
you  have  read." 

The  following  week  Anna  was  again  in  Everett's 
studio.  This  sitting,  he  promised  her  as  it  drew  to  a 
close,  should  be  the  last,  as  he  could  finish  the  picture 
without  her. 

"Am  I  to  see  it  now  ?  "   asked  Anna,  timidly. 

"  Not  quite  yet,  if  you  can  be  patient  still  after  such 
long  forbearance,"  was  the  answer,  given  with  a  bright 
but  half-pleading  smile.  "  I  want  you  to  like  the  thing 
if  you  can,  Mrs.  Burgess,  and  I  know  my  chances  are 
better  if  you  see  it  when  the  final  touches  are  on." 

"  Very  well.      I  am  not  in  a  hurry." 

When  Anna  left  the  studio  the  sun  was  low  and  the 
room  fast  growing  shadowy.  Seeing  how  hard  and  in- 
tensely Everett  was  working  to  use  the  last  light  of  the 
day,  she  insisted  that  he  should  not  come  down  the  three 
long  flights  of  stairs  with  her.  The  studio  was  at  the 
top  of  the  house.  They  parted,  therefore,  with  a  brief, 
cordial  good-by,  and  earnest  thanks  from  the  young 
artist,  whose  admiration  and  reverence  for  his  model  had 
grown  with  every  hour  spent  in  her  presence. 

On  the  second  flight  of  stairs  Anna  encountered  the 
housemaid  coming  up,  a  tray  with  a  card  in  her  hand. 
Otherwise  the  house  seemed  strangely  still  and  deserted 
that  evening.      As  she  descended   slowly  from  the  broad 


Afternoon  173 

landing  of  the  main  staircase,  where  a  window  of  stained 
glass  threw  a  deep  radiance  from  the  western  sky  like  a 
shaft  of  colour  down  into  the  dim  hall  below,  Anna  per- 
ceived that  some  one  stood  there,  waiting. 

As  she  looked,  amazement  and  a  strange,  deep  joy  took 
hold  on  her.  The  man  who  stood  with  arms  crossed 
upon  his  breast  where  the  shaft  of  light  fell  full  upon 
him  in  the  gathering  shadow  was  of  heroic  height  and 
stature,  with  a  large  leonine  head,  grey  hair  thrown  care- 
lessly from  his  forehead,  strong  features,  and  eyes  stern 
and  grave  in  their  fixed  look  straight  before  him  as  he 
stood. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Anna  Mallison  had  con- 
fronted this  face.  Twice  in  her  girlhood  she  had  seen 
it  as  she  saw  it  now.  It  was  the  face  of  her  dream,  the 
dream  which  for  years  secretly  dominated  her  inner  life 
as  a  vision  of  human  power  and  greatness  touched  with 
supernatural  light.  Even  in  later  time,  in  this  year  of 
her  Fulham  life,  she  had  at  intervals  recalled  that  pres 
ence  and  influence  distinctly,  and  never  without  quick- 
ened pulses  and  mysterious  longing.  And  now  she  saw 
bodily  before  her  the  very  shape  and  substance  of  her 
dream. 

With  her  heart  beating  violently  and  her  breath  pain- 
fully quickened,  she  proceeded  down  the  stairs,  through 
the  hall,  and  so  past  the  place  where  the  stranger  stood. 
When  she  reached  him  he  became  aware  of  her  presence 
for  the  first  time.  Throwing  back  his  head  slightly  with 
the  action  of  one  surprised,  he  met  Anna's  eyes  lifted 
with  timid  joy  and  dreamlike  appeal  to  his  face,  and 
smiled,  bending  slightly  as  if  in  spiritual  bestowment,  and 
shedding  into  her  heart  the  inexplicable  delight  which 
she  had  known  before  only  as  the  effluence  of  a  dream. 


1 74  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

Neither  spoke.  The  house  door  opened  and  closed, 
and  Anna  hastened  down  the  street  alone  under  the 
pale,  clear  sky,  with  a  sense  that  the  greatest  event  of 
her  life  had  befallen  her,  but  she  knew  not  what  it  was. 
As  she  went  on  her  homeward  way  she  seemed  to  her- 
self to  be  palpably  taken  up  and  borne  onward  by  a  power 
beyond  herself,  as  of  some  rushing,  mighty  "  wind  of 
destiny." 

She  found  her  husband  at  home,  alone  in  the  dusky 
library  by  an  oppressive  fire.  She  wanted  to  tell  him 
what  had  happened  ;  but  when  she  sought  to  do  this  she 
found  that  nothing  had  happened  ;  there  was  nothing  to 
tell  unless  she  should  seek  to  put  into  words  that  mys- 
terious dream  of  her  past,  and  this  she  found  impossible. 
The  dream  was  her  own.  No  one  else  could  under- 
stand. 

Keith  had  returned  from  a  long  and  tiresome  journey 
in  her  absence,  and  Anna  was  filled  with  penitence  that 
she  had  not  been  in  the  house  to  receive  him  and  make 
him  comfortable.  He  looked  worn  and  dispirited,  and 
complained  of  the  weather,  which  she  had  thought  celes- 
tial, but  which  prostrated  his  strength. 

In  her  quiet,  skilful  way  she  ministered  to  him,  hid- 
ing in  her  heart  the  deep  happiness  in  which  no  one 
could  share,  and  as  she  bathed  his  head  he  caught  her 
hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  Oh,  my  wife,"  he  said,  so  low  that  she  could  hardly 
hear,  "  you  are  too  beautiful,  too  wonderful  for  a  miser- 
able weakling  of  a  man  like  me  ;  but  how  I  love  you, 
Anna  !      Tell  me  that  I  do  not  spoil  your  life." 


CHAPTER   XIX 

I  am  holy  while  I  stand 
Circumcrossed  by  thy  pure  hand ; 
But  when  that  is  gone  again, 
I,  as  others,  am  profane. 

—  Robert  Herrick. 

John  Gregory  stood  in  the  studio  with  his  friend, 
the  first  greetings  over. 

"  May  I  look  at  your  work  ?  "  he  asked,  approaching 
Everett's  easel.  The  younger  man  stood  behind  him 
with  sensitive,  changing  colour,  and  something  almost 
like  trepidation  in  the  expression  of  his  face. 

There  was  a  certain  quality  of  command  in  John 
Gregory,  of  which  he  was  himself,  perhaps,  usually 
unconscious,  which  produced  in  many  minds  a  dispro- 
portionate anxiety  to  win  his  approval.  As  he  stood 
now  before  Everett's  easel,  however,  he  was  not  the 
awe-inspiring  figure  of  Anna's  dream,  or  even  of  its 
sudden  fulfilment,  but  simply  an  English  gentleman  in 
his  rough  travelling  tweeds,  a  man  of  fifty  or  there- 
about, noticeable  for  his  height  and  splendid  proportion, 
for  a  kind  of  rugged  harmony  of  feature,  and  for  the 
peculiarly  piercing  quality  of  his  glance.  His  manner 
was  characterized  by  repose  which  might  have  appeared 
stolidity  had  not  the  fire  in  his  eyes  denied  the  sugges- 
tion ;  his  voice  was  deep  and  full,  and  he  spoke  with 
the  roll  and  rhythm  of  accent  common  to  educated  Eng- 
lishmen. The  aspect  of  the  man  produced,  altogether, 
an  effect  of  almost  careless  freedom  from  form,  the  sense 

»7S 


176  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

that  here  was  one  who  had  to  do  with  what  was  actual 
and  imperative,  not  with  the  adventitious  and  artificial ; 
in  fine,  an  essentially  masculine  and  virile  individuality, 
—  a  man  born  to  lead,  not  to  follow. 

Beside  him,  Pierce  Everett,  with  his  delicate  mobility 
of  face  and  the  slender  grace  of  his  frame,  looked  boyish 
and  even  effeminate,  but  there  was  nothing  of  superiority 
or  patronage  in  Gregory's  bearing  toward  the  young 
artist,  but  rather  a  kind  of  affectionate  comradery  pecul- 
iarly winning,  and  he  entered  into  the  study  of  the 
young  man's  work  with  cordial  and  sympathetic  interest. 

The  canvas  before  them  was  not  a  large  one ;  the 
composition  extremely  simple ;  the  single  figure  it  pre- 
sented was  set  in  against  a  background  of  cold,  low  tones 
of  yellow.  A  crumbling  tomb  of  hewn  stone,  with  tufts 
of  dry  grass  growing  in  the  crevices,  hoary  with  age, 
stained  with  decay,  was  set  against  a  steep  hillside  of 
sterile  limestone.  Leaning  upon  a  broken  pillar  of  this 
tomb  stood  the  figure  of  a  young  girl,  her  hands  dropped 
carelessly  upon  the  rough  stone  before  her,  her  head 
lifted  and  encircled  by  a  faint  nimbus,  the  eyes  fixed  in 
absorbed  contemplation,  and  yet  with  a  child's  passion- 
less calm.  The  outlines  of  the  figure,  in  white  Oriental 
dress,  were  those  of  extreme  youth,  undeveloped  and 
severe;  the  attitude  had  an  unconscious  childlike  grace, 
the  expression  of  the  face  was  that  of  awe  and  wonder, 
with  a  curious  mingling  of  joy  and  dread.  The  subject, 
easily  guessed,  was  the  Virgin  in  Contemplation  in  early 
girlhood. 

The  picture  was  nearly  finished,  only  the  detail  of  the 
foreground  remained  incomplete. 

John  Gregory  stood  for  some  time  in  silence.  The 
face  and  figure  before  him   possessed  the  expression  of 


Afte 


rnoon 


177 


high,  spiritual  quality  common  to  the  early  Florentines  ; 
there  was  little  of  fleshly  or  earthly  beauty,  but  an  aura 
of  celestial  purity,  of  virginal  innocence  and  devout  aspi- 
ration, was  the  more  perceived. 

"You  have  painted,  like  Fra  Angelico,  Everett,  with 
heaven  in  your  heart." 

Gregory  spoke  at  last.  The  artist  drew  a  long  breath 
and  turned  away,  satisfied.  They  both  found  chairs 
then,  and  settled  down  for  an  hour  of  talk. 

"  Where  could  you  find  a  model  for  such  a  conception  ? 
It  would  be  most  difficult,  I  should  think,  in  our  self- 
conscious,  sophisticated,  modern  life." 

"  It  was  my  model  who  created  my  picture,"  replied 
Everett.  "  Mrs.  Keith  Burgess  is  the  lady's  name. 
Seeing  her  at  church,  when  she  came  here  a  bride,  gave 
me  my  first  thought  of  the  thing." 

Gregory  looked  at  him  meditatively. 

"  It  is  most  remarkable  that  a  woman  who  was  mar- 
ried could  have  suggested  your  little  Mary  there,  with 
that  child's  unconsciousness  in  her  eyes,  that  obviously 
virginal  soul.  When  a  woman  has  loved  a  man,  she  has 
another  look." 

Everett  was  surprised  at  this  comment  from  Gregory, 
who  had  never  married,  and  who  was  peculiarly  silent  and 
indifferent  commonly  when  the  subject  of  love  or  marriage 
was  touched  in  conversation.      He  answered  presently  : 

"  When  Mrs.  Burgess  was  married  and  came  here,  she 
was  in  a  sense  a  child.  She  was  thoughtful  and  serious 
beyond  her  years  in  religious  concerns,  but  quite  undevel- 
oped on  all  other  lines,  and  as  inexperienced  in  the  motives 
and  energies  of  the  modern  world  as  a  child  —  I  think  one 
might  have  described  her  then  as  a  very  religious  child." 

"  Has  she  changed  greatly  ?  " 

N 


178  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  Not  so  much,  and  yet  somewhat.  She  has  begun  to 
read,  you  see,  which  she  never  had  done  except  on  cer- 
tain scholastic  and  religious  lines  ;  she  has  begun  to  think 
for  herself  somewhat,  and  in  a  sense,  one  could  say,  she 
has  begun  to  live." 

John  Gregory  did  not  reply,  but  he  said  to  himself 
that  if  she  had  begun  to  love  she  could  not  have  fur- 
nished his  friend  with  the  inspiration  and  the  model  for 
just  that  picture. 

He  had  come  to  Fulham  only  for  the  evening,  being 
on  his  way  to  take  a  steamer  from  Montreal  back  to 
England.  The  two  men  had  dinner  together,  and  then, 
returning  to  the  studio,  conversed  long  and  earnestly. 
Gregory  spoke  freely  but  not  fully  of  plans  which 
absorbed  him,  but  which  were  not  yet  matured.  Some 
theory  of  social  cooperation  was  in  full  possession  of 
his  mind,  and  he  had  small  consideration  for  things  out- 
side. Everett  listened  with  serious  attention  to  all  that 
he  said,  and  when  he  rose  to  make  ready  for  departure 
he  remarked  :  — 

"  Mr.  Gregory,  when  the  time  comes  that  you  are 
ready  to  carry  into  execution  any  plan  embodying  this 
principle  of  brotherhood,  count  on  me,  if  you  think  me 
worthy.      I  am  ready  to  follow  you  —  anywhere." 

Gregory  looked  down  upon  the  young  man  with  his 
grave  and  winning  smile. 

"  Thank  you,  Everett ;  I  shall  remember.  But  do  you 
know,  my  dear  fellow,  I  want  to  ask  a  tremendous  favour 
of  you  now,  this  very  night  ?  " 

"  Say  on,"  returned  the  other. 

Gregory  had  crossed  the  room  to  the  easel,  and  now 
stood  with  a  look  intent  on  the  picture  of  the  young 
Virgin. 


Afternoon 


179 


"  It  is  a  bold  request,  but  I  want  to  buy  this  picture 
of  you  now  —  before  you  have  a  chance  to  touch  it 
again.  Who  knows  but  you  may  spoil  it  ?  It  interests 
me  unusually,  and  I  want  to  take  it  with  me  to  England, 
—  to  do  that  it  must  go  with  me  to-night.  I  will  pay 
you  any  price  you  have  in  mind.  I  want  it  for  a  pur- 
pose, Everett." 

"  What !  you  mean  that  I  should  let  it  go  to-night, 
before  I  have  finished  it,  or  shown  it  to  Mrs.  Burgess 
herself  even  ?  "  and  Everett  looked  almost  aghast.  "  She 
has  never  seen  it,  even  once,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  looking  fully  into  the  artist's 
excited  face  with  undisturbed  quietness;  "that  is  exactly 
what  I  ask  of  you.  I  will  promise  to  return  the  painting 
to  you  at  some  future  date  if  that  should  be  your  wish.  I 
shall  be  over  here  again  in  a  year." 

Everett  stood  for  a  moment,  reflecting. 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  the  picture,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  So  am  I,"  said  the  other,  smiling. 

Everett  glanced  up,  and  caught  the  smile,  and  felt  a 
strange  control  in  it. 

"You  will  have  to  take  it,"  he  said,  with  a  nervous 
laugh.     "  There  is  no  other  way." 

"  Then,  put  a  good  price  on  it,  my  boy,"  said 
Gregory,  with   matter-of-fact   brevity. 

"  You  will  agree  not  to  exhibit  it  anywhere,  publicly  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  I  could  not  do  that  without  Mrs. 
Burgess's  consent." 

"  How  I  shall  make  my  peace  with  her,  I  am  sure 
I  cannot  imagine,"  murmured  Everett,  as  he  took  the 
painting  from  its  place,  and  laid  it  on  the  table  prepara- 
tory to  packing  it. 

"  Will    you   tell    her,    please,"    said    Gregory,    quite 


180  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

unmoved,  "  that  I  wanted  the  picture,  and  will  agree  to 
make  good  use  of  it  ?  " 

A  sudden  clearing  passed  over  Everett's  clouded  face. 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure !  "  he  cried ;  "  Mrs. 
Burgess  has  read  your  recent  articles  in  the  Economist, 
and  she  is  quite  enthusiastic  over  them.  It  will  be  all 
right." 

"  I  am  sure  it  will,"  said  John  Gregory.  He  was 
thinking  of  Anna's  face  as  she  had  passed  him  in  the 
hall  below,  but  he  did  not  mention  the  fact  that  they 
had  met  to  Everett. 


CHAPTER   XX 

That  which  has  caused  the  miserable  failure  of  all  the  efforts  of  natural 
religion,  is  that  its  founders  have  not  had  the  courage  to  lay  hold  upon  the  hearts 
of  men,  consenting  to  no  partition.  They  have  not  understood  the  imperious 
desire  for  immolation  which  lies  in  the  depths  of  every  soul,  and  souls  have  taken 
their  revenge  in  not  heeding  those  too  lukewarm  lovers. 

—  Life  of  St.  Francis.      Sabatier. 

To  be  content  to  have  while  others  have  not,  to  be  content  to  be  right  while 
others  are  bound  and  crushed  with  wrong,  to  be  content  to  be  saved  apart  from 
the  common  life,  to  seek  heaven  while  our  brothers  are  in  hell,  is  deepest  perdi- 
tion and  not  salvation  ;  it  is  the  mark  of  Cain  in  a  new  form.  —  G.  D.  Herron. 

In  the  few  years  which  followed  her  early  married 
life,  the  cords  of  convention,  slender,  and  strong  as 
threads  of  silk,  were  wound  closer  and  closer  about 
Anna  Burgess  outwardly.  As  she  grew  older,  Keith's 
mother  grew  more  immovable  in  her  social  creed,  and 
ruled  her  family  more  rigidly.  Anna  might  read  and 
study,  but  if  she  would  please  her  mother-in-law,  it  must 
be  in  the  mildest  of  manners,  and  on  strictly  suitable 
and  ladylike  lines  ;  religious  biography  was  recom- 
mended, while  all  literature  which  conveyed  a  touch  of 
freedom  in  thought,  or  a  suggestion  of  a  change  in  social 
conditions,  was  viewed  with  horror. 

Anna  might  also  be  charitable,  but  this  too  must  be 
on  strictly  conventional  lines.  There  were  numerous 
benevolent  organizations  upheld  by  Fulham's  fashion- 
able women ;  the  name  of  Mrs.  Keith  Burgess  might 
figure  frequently  on  these,  —  to  this  there  would  be  no 
opposition,  but  individual  and  sporadic  work  among  the 
poor  was   uniformly   discouraged.      The  family  carriage 

181 


1 82  A   Woman  of  Yesterday- 

was  often  sent  into  the  slums  of  the  city  on  errands  of 
bestowal  as  from  the  wealthy  to  those  "  less  favoured," 
but  when  Anna  would  have  liked  the  carriage  to  take 
her  on  social  calls  on  equal  terms,  in  respectable  but 
unfashionable  regions,  she  met  with  a  cold  disfavour  and 
unyielding  lack  of  compliance. 

Malvina  Loveland,  who  had  been  married  to  the 
Rev.  Frank  Nichols,  not  long  after  Anna's  marriage, 
had  come  again  within  Anna's  horizon.  Through 
Keith's  personal  influence,  exerted  at  Mr.  Nichols's 
request,  a  call  had  been  extended  to  him  to  the  pastorate 
of  a  church  in  Fulham.  This  church  was  not  very 
large  and  not  particularly  prominent ;  furthermore,  it  was 
not  in  the  "  right  "  part  of  Fulham  geographically,  which 
was  as  distinctly  limited  as  the  social  circle. 

The  Nicholses,  delighted  to  come  to  Fulham  as  a 
university  town  of  some  importance,  and  to  a  church 
far  more  promising  of  obvious  success  than  the  mission 
enterprise  in  which  they  had  worked  in  Burlington, 
innocently  rented  a  cosey  modern  house  on  a  pleasant 
street  which,  had  they  but  known  it,  distinctly  stamped 
them  as  socially  ineligible  from  the  day  of  their  ar- 
rival. 

Mally,  dreaming  of  nothing  of  the  kind,  entered  upon 
what  she  expected  to  be  a  somewhat  brilliant  life  socially, 
into  which  she  saw  her  husband  and  herself  conducted 
easily  and  naturally  by  the  Keith  Burgesses. 

Anna  had  received  her  old  friend  with  most  affection- 
ate cordiality,  and  had  spent  days  of  hard  work  in  help- 
ing her  to  order  her  house,  which,  as  there  was  a  baby 
and  but  one  servant,  was  not  a  small  undertaking. 
Madam  Burgess  had  submitted  with  patience  to  the  long 
absences  and  the  preoccupation  of  her  daughter-in-law 


Afternoon  1 83 

thus  involved,  and  had  even  responded  without  demur 
to  Anna's  timid  request  that  they  might  have  her  old 
friends  to  dinner. 

This  dinner  closed  the  Nichols  episode  from  the 
social  point  of  view.  The  guests  were  full  of  cheerful 
and  unfeigned  admiration,  eager  to  please,  easy  to  be 
pleased,  but  their  good  will  availed  them  nothing.  Even 
Anna  could  not  fail  now  to  perceive  poor  Mally's 
inherent  provincialness,  but  had  she  been  apparently  to 
the  manner  born,  it  would  have  made  no  difference  with 
Madam  Burgess.  The  essential  qualifications  to  entrance 
into  her  world  being  lacking,  her  punctilious  and  atten- 
tive courtesy  for  the  occasion  simply  covered  the  inevi- 
table and  absolute  finality  of  it. 

The  Nicholses  themselves,  while  by  no  means  perceiv- 
ing that  the  social  career  to  which  they  had  looked 
forward  in  Fulham  was  ended  with  this  visit  instead  of 
begun,  departed  from  the  Burgess  mansion  with  a  vague 
sense  of  chill  which  all  Anna's  efforts  could  not  counter- 
act. They  were  never  invited  there  again.  Madam 
Burgess  had  done  her  duty  by  her  son's  wife's  early 
friends,  and  the  incident,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned, 
was  closed. 

Anna,  burning  with  a  desire  to  make  up  to  Mally  for 
the  inevitable  disappointment  which  she  foresaw,  and 
hotly,  although  silently,  resenting  the  social  narrowness 
which  excluded  all  men  and  women  whose  lives  had  not 
been  run  in  the  one  fixed  mould,  devoted  herself  personally 
to  her  old  friend  with  double  ardour.  More  than  this  she 
could  not  do.  Mally  wondered,  as  the  months  passed 
and  they  settled  down  to  the  undivided  intercourse  of 
their  own  obscure  church  and  neighbourhood,  that  Anna 
made  no  attempt  to  introduce  her  into  her  own  aristo- 


184  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

cratic  circle.  Over  and  over  she  bit  back  the  question 
which  would  reach  her  lips,  "  Why  ?  "  Her  heart  fer- 
mented with  bitterness  and  resentment,  and  her  husband 
was  taxed  to  the  utmost  to  subdue  and  sweeten  the  tumult 
of  her  wounded  feeling. 

Another  year  brought  Mally  another  baby,  greatly  to 
her  own  dissatisfaction.  Poor  Anna,  the  great  passion  of 
motherhood  within  her  still  baffled  and  unfulfilled,  poured 
out  her  soul  upon  mother  and  child  in  vicarious  ecstasy, 
and  went  home  to  lie  awake  for  many  nights  with  her 
ceaseless,  thwarted  yearning  for  a  child  ;  and  thus  these 
two  women  each  longed  passionately  for  what  the  other, 
possessing,  found  a  burden  rather  than  a  joy. 

As  time  went  on,  Anna,  bound  to  a  certain  outward 
course  of  life  alien  to  her  natural  bent,  lived  her  own 
life  just  below  the  surface,  a  life  like  a  flame  burning 
beneath  ice.  All  the  master  motives  of  her  nature 
unapplied ;  all  the  initial  motives  with  which  life  had 
begun,  neutralized  and  made  ineffective,  she  reached,  five 
years  of  married  life  over,  the  point  which  in  any  human 
development  is  one  of  danger,  —  the  point  when  great 
personal  forces  are  dammed  up  by  barriers  of  external 
circumstance,  when  the  prime  powers  and  passions  are 
without  adequate  expression. 

Meanwhile  Keith  Burgess,  his  young  enthusiasms 
havino-  lost  their  first  freshness,  the  limitations  of 
physical  weakness  and  suffering  making  themselves 
more  and  more  felt,  settled  into  a  narrow  routine  of 
life  and  thought.  As  his  physique  gradually  seemed  to 
shrivel  and  his  delicacy  of  form  and  feature  to  increase, 
a  resemblance  to  his  mother,  scarcely  observable  in  his 
younger  manhood,  became  at  times  striking.  His  mission- 
ary activity  passed   from  its  original  fresh  ardour  into  a 


Afternoon  185 

system  of  petty  details,  increasingly  formal  and  perfunc- 
tory, even  to  Anna's  reluctant  perception. 

Perhaps  it  was  due  to  Keith's  protracted  absences 
from  home,  perhaps  partly  to  his  physical  exhaustion, 
which  made  him  dull  and  unresponsive  when  with  her, 
but  Anna  felt,  against  her  own  will,  a  growing  divergence 
in  thought  and  interest  between  them.  He  was  delicately 
sympathetic,  chivalrously  attentive,  to  her  in  all  outward 
ways ;  but  when  she  longed  with  eager  craving  for  his 
participation  in  the  life  of  thought  and  purpose  which 
was  stirring  the  depths  of  her  nature  in  secret,  she  found 
scant  response. 

Driven  inward  thus  at  every  point,  Anna's  essential 
life  centred  itself  more  and  more  upon  the  new  message 
of  social  brotherhood  which  she  had  found  in  the  writ- 
ings of  John  Gregory;  and,  unconsciously  to  herself,  the 
ruling  figure  in  her  mind,  as  the  symbol  of  the  human 
power  and  freedom  for  which  she  longed,  was  his.  The 
"  counterfeit  presentment  "  of  this  man  in  her  dream  had 
ruled  her  girlish  imagination  ;  and  now  his  actual  pres- 
ence, though  but  once  encountered,  exercised  an  influ- 
ence over  her  maturer  life  no  less  mysterious  and  no  less 
profound.  To  this  influence  fresh  strength  was  given  by 
the  relation,  never-so-slight,  which  existed  between  them 
by  reason  of  Gregory's  possession  of  the  picture  painted 
by  Everett.  How  she  was  represented  was  still  all  un- 
known to  her,  still  unasked  ;  but  must  it  not  be  that, 
owning  this  mysterious  image  of  her  face,  his  thoughts 
would  sometimes  turn  to  her  ?  This  thought  stirred 
Anna  with  a  thrill,  half  of  joy,  half  of  fear. 

An  interruption  in  the  routine  of  their  Fulham  life 
occurred  after  Keith  had  served  the  missionary  society 
for  a  period  of  five  years.     An  illness  which  manifested, 


1 86  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

as  well  as  increased,  his  physical  inability  to  continue  in 
his  difficult  duties  brought  Keith  and  Anna  to  a  sudden 
course  of  action.  Keith  resigned  his  official  position, 
and,  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  travel,  they  sailed  for 
Europe  for  a  year's  absence. 

This  was  a  year  of  rapid  development  and  of  abound- 
ing happiness  to  Anna.  Alone  and  unguarded  in  their 
life  together  for  the  first  time  since  their  marriage,  the 
husband  and  wife  grew  together  in  new  sympathy,  and 
fed  their  spirits  on  the  beauty  and  wonder  of  art  and  the 
majesty  of  nature  in  fond  accord.  The  fulness  and  rich- 
ness and  complexity  of  the  working  of  the  human  spirit 
throughout  the  ages  were  revealed  to  Anna;  the  gran- 
deur and  purity  of  dedicated  lives  of  creeds  unlike  and 
even  hostile  to  her  own  opened  her  eyes  to  a  new  and 
broader  view  of  human  and  divine  relations.  Reverence, 
love,  and  sympathy  began  to  usurp  the  place  of  dogma, 
division,  and  exclusion  in  her  mental  energies.  She 
began  to  perceive  that  the  righteous  were  not  wholly 
righteous,  nor  the  wicked  wholly  wicked.  The  old 
ground  plan  of  the  moral  universe  with  which  she  had 
started  in  life  looked  now  a  mean  and  narrow  thing. 
Larger  hopes  and  a  bolder  faith  awoke  in  her. 

And  so  in  mind,  and  also  in  body,  Anna  grew  joyously 
and  freely;  even  her  attitudes  and  motions  expressed  a  new 
harmony,  while  suavity  and  grace  of  outline  succeeded  to 
the  meagre  and  angular  proportions  of  her  youth. 

The  return  to  Fulham  came,  when  it  could  no  longer 
be  postponed,  as  an  unwelcome  period  to  their  best  year 
of  life.  Madam  Burgess  received  her  children  with 
affectionate,  albeit  restrained,  cordiality,  and  watched 
Anna  with  keen  eyes  on  which  no  change,  however 
slight,  was  lost. 


Afternoon  187 

When  mother  and  son  were  left  alone  on  the  night 
of  the  return,  as  on  the  night  when  Keith  brought  his 
wife  home  a  bride,  Madam  Burgess  spoke  plainly  and 
directly  of  Anna.  She  had  never  discussed  her  charac- 
teristics from  that  night  until  the  present,  but  she  felt 
that  another  epoch  was  reached,  and  a  few  remarks 
would  be  appropriate. 

"  My  son,"  she  said,  "  do  you  remember  the  night 
when  you  brought  Anna  home  to  this  house  as  a 
bride  ?  " 

"Perfectly,  mother." 

"  So  do  I.  I  have  been  going  back  continually  in 
thought  to-night  to  that  time.  Without  undue  partial- 
ity, Keith,  I  think  we  are  justified  in  a  little  self-con- 
gratulation. Anna  has  developed  slowly,  but  she  has  now 
reached  the  first  and  best  bloom  of  her  maturity.  You 
brought  her  here  a  shy,  angular,  country-bred,  undevel- 
oped girl,  although  I  will  not  deny  that  she  had  distinc- 
tion, even  then  ;  to-night  you  bring  her  again  not  only 
a  distingue  but  a  beautiful  woman,  —  yes,  Keith,  I  really 
mean  it, —  a  beautiful  woman,  and  with  a  certain  charm 
about  her  which  makes  her  capable  of  being  a  social 
leader,  if  she  chooses  to  exert  her  power.  I  understand 
she  has  purchased  some  good  gowns  in  Paris.  I  have 
about  concluded  to  give  a  reception  next  month  in 
honour  of  your  return,  if  my  health  permits." 

The  reception,  which  Madam  Burgess's  health  was 
favoured  to  permit,  proved  to  be  as  brilliant  an  event 
as  social  conditions  in  Fulham  rendered  possible.  The 
fine  old  house  was  radiant  with  flowers  and  wax-lights, 
and  the  company  which  was  gathered  was  the  most  dis- 
tinguished which  the  little  city  could  muster.  In  the 
midst  of  all  the  gay  array  stood  Keith  and  Anna, —  he 


1 88  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

with  his  small,  slight  figure,  his  scrupulously  gentle- 
manly air,  his  thin,  worn  face  and  nervous  manner;  she 
tall  and  stately,  with  her  characteristic  repose  illuminated 
by  new  springs  of  thought,  perception,  and  feeling,  full 
of  swift  and  radiant  response  to  each  newcomer's  word, 
overflowing  with  the  first  fresh  joy  of  her  awakened 
social  instinct. 

Professor  Ward  stood  with  Pierce  Everett  aside,  and, 
watching  Anna,  said  in  a  lowered  voice  :  — 

"  Mrs.  Burgess  is  a  woman  now,  through  and  through. 
Would  you  know  her  for  the  girl  whom  Keith  brought 
here  half  a  dozen  years  ago  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  find  my  little  maiden  Mary  in  that 
queenly  creature  !  "   exclaimed  Everett. 

"  No  ;  you  were  just  in  time  with  that  mysterious  dis- 
appearance of  yours,  bad  luck  to  you  that  you  made 
way   with   it,   however  you  did  !  " 

"  It  has  taken  her  a  good  while  to  accept  the  world's 
standards  and  fit  herself  to  the  world's  groove,  but 
Madam  Burgess  has  been  patient  and  diligent,  and  I 
think  she  has  succeeded  at  last,"  said  Everett  gravely  ; 
u  she  will  run  along  all  right  after  this." 

"You  think  Mrs.  Keith  will  live  to  sustain  the  fam- 
ily traditions  hereafter,  do  you  ?  And  Keith,  what  is  to 
become  of  him  ?  He  seems  to  have  dropped  ofF  his 
missionary  enthusiasm  with  singular  facility." 

"  Precisely.  You  will  have  to  create  a  nice  little 
chair  for  him  in  the  university  now,  to  keep  him  in  the 
correct  line  of  his  descent.  By  and  by,  you  know,  he 
will  have  the  estate  to  administer.  That  will  be  some- 
thing of  an  occupation." 

"Then  he  probably  will  take  to  collecting  things," 
Ward  added,  "  coins  or  autographs  —  " 


Afternoon  1 89 

"  Oh,  come,  Ward,  you're  too  bad,"  laughed  Everett. 
"You  don't  know  Keith  Burgess  as  well  as  I  do." 

Later  in  the  evening  Anna  was  summoned  from  her 
guests  to  speak  with  some  one  who  had  called  on  an 
urgent  matter  which  could  not  be  put  by  until  another 
time. 

The  fine  hall,  as  she  passed  along  it,  was  alive 
with  lights,  fragrance,  music,  and  airy  gayety ;  her  own 
elastic  step,  her  exquisite  dress,  her  joyous  excitement 
in  the  first  taste  of  social  triumph  which  the  evening 
was  bringing  to  her,  accorded  well  with  the  environ- 
ment. For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Anna  had  seen  that 
she  was  beautiful ;  had  felt  the  potent  charm  of  her  own 
personality;  had  found  that  she  could  draw  to  herself  the 
homage  and  admiration  of  her  social  world.  These 
perceptions  had  not  excited  her  unduly,  but  they  had 
given  her  a  new  sense  of  herself,  a  strong  exhilaration 
which  expressed  itself  in  the  lustre  of  her  eyes,  the 
brightness  of  every  tone  and  tint  of  her  face,  in  the  way 
she  held  her  head,  in  the  clear,  thrilling  cadence  of  her 
voice. 

Once  again,  after  long  dimness  and  confusion,  life 
seemed  about  to  declare  itself  to  her,  and  the  energies  of 
her  nature  to  find  a  free  channel.  At  last  she  might 
move  in  the  line  of  least  resistance,  and  fill  the  place  she 
was  expected  to  fill,  without  further  conflict  or  question. 

It  looked  a  pleasant  path  that  night,  and  submission  a 
sweet  and  gracious  thing. 

With  a  half  smile  still  on  her  lips,  and  the  spirit  of 
the  hour  full  upon  her,  Anna  came  to  the  house  door  and 
opened  it  upon  the  outer  vestibule,  where  she  had  been 
told  the  messenger  would  await  her. 

The  man  who  stood  there  was  John  Gregory. 


190  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

Anna  softly  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  looked  up 
into  his  face.  It  wore  a  different  aspect  from  that  which 
she  remembered,  for  it  was  stern  and  unsmiling,  and 
more  deeply  grave  and  worn  than  she  had  seen  it.  But 
even  more  than  before  the  person  of  the  man  seemed  to 
overawe  her  with  a  sense  of  power  and  command. 

"  Do  you  remember  me,  Mrs.  Burgess  ?  "  he  asked 
simply. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  I  know  you  through  my  friend,  through  the 
picture  he  painted  once  of  you.  You  must  pardon  my 
intruding  upon  you  to-night.  I  could  not  do  otherwise.  I 
have  a  message  for  you,  and  I  am  here  only  for  to-night." 

Anna  did  not  speak,  but  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his 
in  earnest  question,  as  if  in  some  mysterious  way  he 
held  destiny  in  his  hands. 

"  No  man  could  paint  that  picture  from  you  now," 
he  proceeded  slowly,  gently,  and  yet  with  a  kind  of 
unflinching  severity  ;  "  you  had  the  vision  then.  You 
have  lost  it  now.  You  saw  God  once.  To-night  you 
see  the  world.  Once  your  heart  ached  for  the  sorrows 
of  others ;  now  it  thrills  with  your  own  joys.  You 
have  given  up  great  purposes,  and  are  accepting  small 
ones.  I  have  been  sent  to  say  to  you  :  keep  the  word 
of  the  kingdom  and  patience  of  Christ  steadfast  to  the 
end,  and  hold  that  fast  which  was  given  that  no  man 
take  your  crown." 

These  words,  spoken  with  the  solemnity  of  a  pro- 
phetic admonition,  pierced  Anna's  consciousness. 

A  faint  cry,  as  if  in  remonstrance,  broke  from  her 
lips,  but  already  Gregory  had  turned,  and  before  she 
could  speak  she  found  herself  alone. 

With  strong  control  Anna  returned,  and  mingled  with 


Afternoon  191 

her  guests  without  perceptible  change  of  manner.  When, 
however,  the  last  carriage  had  rolled  down  the  street, 
and  the  house  itself  was  dark  and  still,  she  escaped 
alone  to  her  own  room  to  live  over  and  over  again  that 
strange  summons  and  challenge  of  John  Gregory. 

Now  the  sense  of  what  he  had  said  roused  her  to 
burning  indignation  and  protest,  and  again  to  contrition. 
She  knew  that  she  was  blameless  and  approved  if  tried 
by  the  standards  of  the  people  now  about  her,  and  they 
were  the  irreproachable,  church-going  people  of  Fulham. 
She  was  simply  conforming  to  the  demands  of  an  orderly 
and  balanced  social  life,  and  pleasing  those  most  inter- 
ested in  her.  But  she  also  knew  that,  as  tried  by  the 
standards  of  her  father,  and  her  own  early  convictions, 
in  the  social  and  intellectual  ambitions  which  now 
animated  her,  she  was  learning  to  love  "  the  world  and 
the  things  of  the  world,"  to  know  "  the  lust  of  the 
flesh,  and  the  lust  of  the  eyes,  and  the  pride  of  life." 
The  voice  of  her  past  spoke  clearly  through  the  voice 
of  John  Gregory  and  must  be  heard.  The  things  which 
she  had  thought  to  put  away  forever  in  the  solemn 
dedication  of  her  girlhood  had  gradually  returned,  and 
silently  established  themselves  in  her  life  in  the  guise  of 
duties,  necessities,  conformities  to  the  wishes  of  others. 

But  of  late  she  had  come  to  regard  those  early  scruples 
almost  as  superstitious.  Where  lay  the  absolute  right 
—  the  truth  ?  the  will  of  God  concerning  her?  Why 
was  life  so  hard  ?  Why  was  it  impossible  to  even  know 
the  good  ?  What  right  had  John  Gregory  to  spoil,  as 
he  had  spoiled,  this  latest  development  of  life  for  her, 
and  give  her  nothing  in  its  place  ?  She  resented  his 
interference,  and  yet  felt  that  she  should  inevitably  yield 
herself  to  its  influence. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

My  thwarted  woman-thoughts  have  inward  turned, 

And  that  vain  milk  like  acid  in  me  eats. 

Have  I  not  in  my  thought  trained  little  feet 

To  venture,  and  taught  little  lips  to  move 

Until  they  shaped  the  wonder  of  a  word  ? 

I  am  long  practised.      O  those  children,  mine  ! 

Mine,  doubly  mine  :  and  yet  I  cannot  touch  them, 

I  cannot  see  them,  hear  them  —  Does  great  God 

Expect  I  shall  clasp  air  and  kiss  the  wind 

For  ever?     And  the  budding  cometh  on, 

The  burgeoning,  the  cruel  flowering  : 

At  night  the  quickening  splash  of  rain,  at  dawn 

That  muffled  call  of  birds  how  like  to  babes  ; 

And  I  amid  these  sights  and  sounds  must  starve  — 

I,  with  so  much  to  give,  perish  of  thrift  ! 

Omitted  by  his  casual  dew  ! 

—  Stephen  Phillips. 

The  next  morning  Anna  was  sent  for  to  go  to  Mrs. 
Nichols,  whom  she  had  hardly  seen  since  her  return 
from  Europe. 

She  found  her  sitting  in  her  nursery  with  her  two 
little  children  playing  about  her  feet.  She  was  near  her 
third  confinement,  and  in  the  shadow  of  her  imminent 
peril  and  the  heavy  repose  laid  upon  body  and  spirit  by 
her  condition  there  was  an  indescribable  dignity  about 
her  which  Anna  had  never  felt  until  now. 

Before  she  left,  Mally,  with  wistful  eyes,  looked  up  to 
her,  and  said,  timidly  :  — 

"Anna,  you  love  little  children.  No  one  that  I  ever 
saw  takes  mine  in  her  arms  as  you  do  —  not  even  I  who 
am  their  mother." 

192 


Afternoon  193 

"  Oh,  Mally  !  "  Anna  cried,  sharp  tears  piercing  their 
way.  "If  that  is  true,  it  must  be  because  my  heart 
never  stops  aching  for  a  child  of  my  own.  I  know  now 
that  we  shall  never  have  children,  and  I  try  to  be  recon- 
ciled ;  but  you  can  never  know,  dear,  how  I  envy  you." 

"  Do  not  envy  me,"  Mally  answered,  her  lips  trem- 
bling. "  You  do  not  know  what  it  means  to  sit  here 
to-day  and  see  the  shining  of  the  sun  on  the  children's 
hair,  and  touch  their  little  heads  with  my  hand,  and 
smell  those  roses  you  brought,  and  yet  think  that  to- 
morrow at  this  time  I  may  be  gone  beyond  breath,  sight, 
the  sun,  the  children  —  " 

"  Dear,  don't,  don't,"  Anna  pleaded  ;  "  you  must  not 
think  so.  You  have  been  helped  through  safely  before; 
you  will  be  again.  People  always  have  these  times  of 
dread." 

Mally  shook  her  head,  but  answered  quietly  :  — 

"  I  have  never  felt  before  like  this,  but  only  God 
knows.  But  this  is  why  I  sent  for  you  :  If  my  little 
baby  lives,  and  is  a  perfect  child,  and  I  am  taken  away, 
would  you,  Anna,  do  you  think  you  could  —  take  my 
baby  for  your  own,  for  always  ? " 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  !  "  and  all  Anna's  heart  went  out  in 
the  cry,  and  Mally  saw  the  love  which  shone  in  her 
eyes  and  wondered  at  her  strange  beauty. 

"I  am  sure  you  will  come  through  safely  as  you  have 
before,"  she  said,  "  but  this  I  promise  you,  Mally," 
taking  her  friend's  hand  and  holding  it  fast,  "  if  you 
should  be  taken  from  your  children,  and  they  will  let 
me,  —  I  mean  if  my  husband  and  his  mother  should 
consent,  for  I  am  not  quite  free,  you  see,  —  I  will  take 
your  little  baby  and  it  shall  be  my  very  own,  and  I  will 
be  its  mother  while  we  both  live,  God  helping  me." 
o 


194  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

A  look  of  deep  joy  and  relief  in  Mally's  poor  pale 
face  was  full  response,  and  the  two  parted  with  a  sense 
of  a  deeper  union  of  spirit  than  they  had  ever  known 
before. 

Early  on  the  following  morning,  after  a  wakeful  and 
anxious  night,  Anna  hastened  to  the  Nicholses'  home. 

Mally's  husband  met  her  with  a  stricken  face,  for  a 
swift  and  sudden  blow  had  fallen  ;  her  trial  had  come 
and  his  wife  had  died,  hardly  an  hour  before.  There 
had  been  no  time  to  send  for  Anna,  although  Mally  had 
spoken  her  name  almost  at  the  last. 

They  stood  together  in  the  poor,  gay  little  parlour 
which  Mally  had  adorned  with  high  hopes  of  the 
abundant  life  into  which  she  fancied  herself  entering, 
—  the  young  husband  with  his  grief-wrung,  ashy  face, 
Anna  with  her  heart  melted  in  sorrow  and  compassion. 
While  neither  could  speak  for  their  tears,  the  faint  wail 
of  a  little  child  smote  upon  the  silence  from  a  room 
within. 

"  The  baby  ?  "  Anna  asked  under  her  breath. 

A  deeper  darkness  seemed  to  settle  upon  Nichols's 
face. 

"  Yes,  a  boy.  A  fine  little  fellow,  they  say  ;  but  I  feel 
as  if  I  could  not  look  at  him.      I  have  not  seen  him." 

Anna  turned  and  left  the  room,  and  in  another  mo- 
ment, in  the  dark  inner  room  where  she  had  sat  with 
Mally  in  the  sunshine  the  day  before,  she  took  Mally's 
baby  into  her  arms,  and  bent  her  head  above  it  with  a 
great  sense  of  motherhood  breaking  over  her  spirit  like 
a  wave  from  an  infinite  sea. 

She  stood  and  held  the  tiny  creature  for  many  moments, 
alone  and  in  silence,  while  joy  and  sorrow,  life  and  death, 
passed  by  her  and  revealed  themselves.      Then  she  laid 


Afternoon 


IQ5 


the  baby  down  and  went  up  to  the  room  where  Mally 
lay,  white  and  still,  with  something  of  the  beauty  of  her 
girlhood  in  her  face,  and  the  great  added  majesty  of 
motherhood  and  death.  On  her  knees  Anna  bent  over 
the  unanswering  hand  which  yesterday  she  had  seen  laid 
warmly  on  the  fair  curls  of  her  little  children,  and,  in  the 
hush  and  awe  of  the  place,  spoke  again  her  solemn  prom- 
ise of  yesterday. 

After  that  she  came  down  to  the  children  and  their 
father,  and  took  quietly  into  her  own  hands  the  many 
cares  which  the  day  had  brought. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  Anna,  exhausted  and 
unnerved,  returned  home.  She  found  Keith  and  his 
mother  waiting  for  her  in  the  library, —  Keith  hastening 
to  welcome  her  with  tender  sympathy,  Madam  Burgess 
a  shade  colder  than  usual  beneath  a  surface  of  suitable 
phrases  of  solicitude  and  condolence.  She  had  been 
absolutely  indifferent  to  Mrs.  Nichols  in  life,  and  did 
not  find  her  deeply  interesting  even  in  death.  Further- 
more, she  always  resented  Anna's  spending  herself  upon 
that  family,  and  in  the  present  affliction  she  felt  that 
flowers  and  a  ten-minute  call  would  have  answered  every 
demand. 

If  Anna  had  been  steadier  and  less  under  the  influence 
of  the  piteous  desolation  of  the  home  she  had  left,  less 
absorbed  in  her  own  ardent  purpose,  she  would  have 
realized  that  this  was  not  the  time  or  place  in  which 
to  make  that  purpose  known.  If  she  had  waited,  if 
she  had  talked  with  her  husband  alone,  the  future  of 
all  their  lives  might  have  taken  a  different  shape.  But 
with  the  one  controlling  thought  in  her  mind,  forgetting 
how  impossible  it  was  for  these  two,  not  highly  gifted 
with  imaginative  sympathy,  to  enter  into  her  own  deep 


196  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

emotion,  she  spoke  at  once  of  Mally's  request  that  in  the 
event  of  her  death  she  should  take  her  baby  ;  of  her  own 
conditional  promise,  and  of  her  deep  desire  to  fulfil  it. 

There  was  a  little  silence,  chill  and  bleak,  and  then 
Keith  said,  in  a  half-soothing  tone  as  if  she  had  been  an 
excited  child,  hurrying  in  with  a  manifestly  impossible 
petition  :  — 

"It  was  a  very  sweet  and  generous  wish  on  your  part, 
Anna  ;   so  like  you,  dear." 

Anna  looked  at  him  in  silence,  her  lips  parted. 

Madam  Burgess  gave  a  dry  cough,  and  partook  of  a 
troche  from  a  small  silver  box  which  she  carried  in  a 
lace-trimmed  bag. 

"Yes,  as  Keith  says,  my  dear,  it  was  a  kind  impulse 
on  your  part,  but  it  certainly  was  a  very  singular  action 
on  that  of  your  friend.  She  was  probably  too  ill,  poor 
thing,  at  the  time  to  realize  just  what  she  was  asking. 
I  have  no  doubt  you  were  quite  excusable  for  giving  her 
some  sort  of  a  conditional  promise,  considering  all  the 
circumstances.  But  you  need  have  no  sense  of  respon- 
sibility in  the  matter;  infants  left  like  that  never  live.  It 
will  only  be  a  question  of  a  few  weeks'  care  for  any 
one." 

Anna  turned  her  eyes  from  her  mother-in-law  back  to 
her  husband  in  mute  amazement  and  appeal.  They  could 
not  mean  to  deny  her  this  sacred  right  !  It  was  impos- 
sible. And  yet  a  sudden  sense  of  the  incongruity  of  poor 
Mally's  baby  in  that  house  smote  sharply  upon  her  for 
the  first  time. 

"  If  it  had  been  God's  will  that  we  should  have  had 
children  of  our  own,  Anna,"  said  Keith,  in  answer  to 
her  look,  "  we  should  have  learned  to  fit  ourselves  to 
the  many  cares  and   responsibilities   involved,  I   do    not 


Afternoon  197 

doubt,  as  others  do ;  but  it  is  very  different  to  go  out 
of  our  way  to  assume  such  cares,  not  ours  in  any  legiti- 
mate sense.  I  think  the  question  is  more  serious  than 
you  realize  in  the  very  natural  and  proper  emotion  which 
you  are  passing  through  in  the  death  of  your  friend.  We 
certainly  could  not  ask  mother  to  take  this  strange  child, 
and  all  that  would  be  involved  in  such  a  relation,  into 
her  house ;  and  we  are,  I  am  sure,  as  little  prepared  to 
leave  mother  and  break  up  our  natural  order  of  life," 
and  Keith  smiled  with  kind  conviction  into  Anna's  face. 
She  rose  slowly  and  stood  with  eyes  fixed  before  her, 
and  a  strange  light  was  in  them,  which  her  husband  had 
never  seen  before. 

"  That  is  all  perfectly  true,  Keith,"  said  Madam  Bur- 
gesses if  to  finish  up  the  case  against  poor  Anna  ;  "and 
even  if  all  this  were  not  so,  there  would  remain  one  in- 
superable obstacle  to  adopting  this  infant  —  an  abso- 
lutely insuperable  obstacle." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "   asked  Anna,  very  low. 

"  Blood,  my  dear.  I  believe  in  blood,  and  never,  with 
his  mother's  consent  or  approval,  could  my  son  give  his 
name,  and  all  that  that  means,  to  a  child  of  alien  stock. 
Never."  And  Madam  Burgess  closed  her  lips  firmly 
and  folded  her  hands  peacefully  upon  her  grey  silk  gown 
with  the  consciousness  of  occupying  a  perfectly  unas- 
sailable position. 

Anna  moved  toward  the  door,  a  curious  effect  in  her 
step  and  bearing  as  of  one  physically  wounded,  her  head 
drooped  slightly  as  if  in  submission,  her  eyes  downcast. 

When  she  reached  the  door,  however,  a  swift  change 
passed  over  her;  a  sudden  energy  and  power  awoke  in 
her,  and  she  turned,  and,  looking  back  at  mother  and 
son,  her  eyes  flashing  light,  and  a   smile  they  had  never 


198  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

seen  before  upon  her  lips,  said  quietly,  but  with  slow 
emphasis  :  — 

"You  have  decided  this  matter.  You  have  each 
other;  you  are  satisfied.  I  shall  submit,  as  you  know. 
Once  more  you  have  taken  my  life  —  its  most  sacred 
promise  and  its  highest  purpose  —  out  of  my  hands. 
This  time  another  life,  too,  is  involved.  One  thing 
only  you  must  let  me  say,  /  wonder  how  you  dare  !  " 

Facing  them  for  an  instant  in  silence,  she  turned,  and 
went  alone  to  her  room. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

One  by  one  thou  dost  gather  the  scattered  families  out  of  the  earthly  light  into 
the  heavenly  glory,  from  the  distractions  and  strife  and  weariness  of  time  to  the 
peace  of  eternity.  We  thank  thee  for  the  labours  and  the  joys  of  these  mortal 
years.  We  thank  thee  for  our  deep  sense  of  the  mysteries  that  lie  beyond  our 
dust.  — Rufus  Ellis. 

By  Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff  comfort  us. 

—  Christina  Rossetti. 

Two  days  later,  in  response  to  a  note  from  Pierce 
Everett,  Anna  went  to  the  studio.  He  wrote  that  John 
Gregory  had  passed  through  Fulham  and  had  left  the 
picture,  in  which  she  might  still  feel  some  lingering 
interest. 

Anna  left  Keith  and  his  mother  diligently  occupied  in 
their  daily  task  of  arranging  and  copying  Keith's  Euro- 
pean letters  and  journals,  interspersing  them  with  careful 
and  copious  notes  from  Baedeker.  From  this  laborious 
undertaking,  which  absorbed  mother  and  son  in  mu- 
tual and  sympathetic  devotion,  Anna  was  self-excluded, 
simply  because  she  found  the  letters  of  merely  passing 
interest,  but  not  of  marked  or  lasting  value  and  concern. 
Madam  Burgess  confessed  that  she  could  think  of  no 
occupation  more  graceful  or  becoming  a  young  wife 
than  this  of  putting  in  permanent  form  the  beautiful 
and  instructive  correspondence  of  her  beloved  husband, 
and  she  found  a  new  cause  for  disapproval  in  Anna's 
indifference  to  the  work.  In  her  own  heart  Anna  hid 
a  great  protest  against  the  substitution  of  puerile  and 
unproductive  work  like  this,   for  the   serious    altruistic 

199 


200  A  Woman   of  Yesterday- 

endeavour  to  which  she  still  felt  that  she  and  Keith  were 
both  inwardly  pledged.  But  this  was  an  old  issue,  and 
one,  indeed,  to-day  almost  forgotten  before  her  passion- 
ate grief  concerning  Mally,  buried  yesterday,  and  the 
promise  to  her  which  might  not  be  fulfilled.  The  pitiful 
cry  of  Mally's  baby  seemed  to  sound  continually  in  her 
ears. 

But  another,  even  deeper,  consciousness  was  that  of 
the  condemnation,  brief,  sharp,  conclusive,  of  herself  by 
John  Gregory.  She  believed  now  that  his  judgment  of 
her  and  of  the  line  along  which  she  was  developing  was 
in  a  measure  just  —  but  what  then?  It  had  suddenly 
become  definitely  declared  in  Anna's  thought,  with  no 
further  shading  or  disguise,  that  a  life  of  worldly  ease, 
of  self  and  sense-pleasing,  of  fashionable  charity  and 
conventional  religion  and  of  intellectual  stagnation,  was 
the  only  life  which  could  be  lived  in  harmony  with  the 
spirit  of  her  home.  Her  soul  lay  that  day  in  the  calm 
which  often  falls  upon  strong  natures  when  profound 
passions  and  powers  are  gathering  in  upheaval  just  below 
the  surface.  To  conform,  or  to  revolt,  or  to  lead  the 
wretched  life  of  spiritual  discord  which  seeks  to  avoid 
alike  conformity  and  freedom,  were  the  hard  alternatives 
before  Anna,  as  she  thought,  that  day. 

Pierce  Everett,  meeting  her  at  the  door  of  his  studio, 
was  startled  by  the  pallor  and  sadness  of  her  face,  like 
that  of  her  earlier  years,  but  forebore  to  question  her. 
He  had  expected  to  see  her  in  the  joyous  bloom  of  his 
last  view  of  her;  he  had  looked  for  her  to  fulfil  his 
prophecy. 

The  light  tone  of  badinage  and  compliment  with 
which  he  had  involuntarily  started  to  receive  her  fell 
from  him   now  as    impossible,  seeing    her   face,   and   in 


Afternoon  201 

almost  utter  silence  he  led  her  across  the  room  and 
pointed  to  the  picture  of  the  Girlhood  of  Mary. 

After  a  few  moments  Anna  said  simply,  without 
turning  to  Everett,  her  eyes  still  on  the  picture  :  — 

"  Did  /  once  look  like  that  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Mr.  Gregory  said  no  one  could  paint  this  from  me 
now,"  Anna  said  slowly,  as  if  to  herself,  not  knowing 
that  tears  were  falling  down  her  cheeks. 

"  You  are  older,  that  is  all,"  said  Everett,  gently. 

"  No,  that  is  not  all.  I  have  lost  something  which  I 
had  then." 

"  We  all  lose  something  with  our  child-soul,  Mrs. 
Burgess,"  cried  Everett,  earnestly;  "but  you  have  gained 
more  than  you  have  .lost.  John  Gregory  was  not  fair 
to  you  to  leave  you  with  a  word  like  that.  You  were  a 
child  then  ;  now  you  are  a  woman.  That  face  in  my 
picture  is  not  the  face  of  a  Madonna,  yet.  It  did  not 
seek  to  be,  but  we  do  not  blame  it  for  that.  Should  we 
blame  the  Mater  Dolorosa  that  she  has  no  longer  the 
face  of  a  child  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,"  Anna  said  humbly,  and  held  out  her 
hand,  which  the  young  man  caught  in  his  and  held  with 
reverence. 

She  left  the  studio  hastily,  not  daring  to  say  more,  a 
childless  mother  of  sorrows.  The  very  emptiness  of  her 
grief,  since  no  sweet  substitution  of  motherhood  could 
be  granted  her,  made  it  the  more  intolerable. 

Instinctively  she  went  from  the  Everetts'  straight 
across  the  city  to  the  unfashionable  new  quarter  and  to 
the  Nicholses'  home.  She  found  Mally's  baby  properly 
cared  for,  but  coldly,  by  hired  and  unloving  hands,  and 
took  it  into  her  own  arms  with  yearning  motherliness  and 


202  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

cried  over  it,  easing  her  heart  and  murmuring  the  tender 
nonsense,  the  artless  art  which  mothers  always  know, 
but  seldom  women  who  have  not  known  motherhood. 

Mr.  Nichols  came  in  and  she  told  him,  —  leaving  the 
baby  that  she  might  surely  control  herself,  —  that  on 
account  of  Madam  Burgess's  feeble  health  it  had  been 
found  impossible  for  her  to  carry  out  Mally's  wish  and 
her  own.  The  disappointment  of  the  poor  fellow,  with 
his  almost  impossible  burden  and  scanty  income,  was 
evident ;  but  he  rallied  well,  and  showed  a  simple  dignity 
in  the  matter  which  made  Anna  like  him  even  better 
than  she  had  before. 

"  I  shall  watch  over  the  baby,  you  may  depend,  and 
come  as  often  as  I  can,"  she  said  in  leaving. 

He  thanked  her,  and  she  made  him  promise  to  send 
for  her  without  delay  or  hesitation  if  there  were  illness 
among  the  children  or  other  emergency,  and  so  came 
away. 

The  frail  little  life,  unwarmed  and  unwelcomed  by 
the  love  which  had  been  bestowed  on  the  other  children, 
seemed  to  feel  itself  in  an  alien  air,  and  failed  from 
week  to  week.  Anna  spent  every  moment  she  could 
with  the  child,  and  sought  to  cherish  and  shield  the  tiny, 
flickering  flame  of  life,  but  in  vain.  The  baby  lingered 
for  a  month,  and  then,  on  a  bleak  March  evening,  Anna 
was  sent  for,  to  speed  its  spirit  back  into  the  unknown 
from  which  it  had  scarcely  emerged.  She  sat  all  night 
with  the  child  upon  her  knees,  the  young  father  asleep 
in  the  leaden  sleep  of  unutterable  weariness  on  a  sofa  in 
the  room  adjoining.  It  is  not  given  to  a  man  to  know 
the  absolute  annihilation  of  the  body  by  love  which 
makes  the  endurance  of  long  night  watches  and  the 
supreme  skill  in  nursing  the  prerogative  of  women. 


Afternoon  203 

The  nurse  came  and  went  at  decent  intervals  with 
offers  of  help  and  of  food,  but  Anna  quietly  declined 
both.  She  knew  that  she  was  about  to  partake  of  the 
sacrament  of  death,  and  she  wished  to  receive  it  fasting, 
and,  if  it  might  be,  alone.  She  knew  that  she  only  on 
earth  loved  the  little  child  and  longed  to  keep  it,  and 
she  meant  that  it  should  die  in  loving  arms,  if  they  had 
been  denied  it  for  living. 

In  the  slow  hours  which  were  yet  too  swift,  as  she 
bent  over  the  small  pinched  face,  brooding  tenderly  over 
the  strange  perfection  of  this  miniature  of  humanity,  the 
delicately  pencilled  eyebrows,  the  fine  moulding  of  the 
forehead,  the  exquisite  ear  with  soft  fair  hair  curling 
about  it,  the  little,  flower-like  hands,  Anna  wondered, 
as  she  never  had  thought  to  wonder  before,  at  the 
wastefulness  of  nature.  All  this  exquisite  organism 
made  perfect  by  months  of  silent  upbuilding,  a  life  of 
full  strength  paid  for  its  faint  breath,  and  then,  this  too 
cut  off  before  the  dawn  of  consciousness  ! 

Harder  to  bear  was  the  thought,  which  would  not 
leave  her,  that  if  she  could  have  taken  the  child  for  her 
own  its  life  could  have  been  saved.  A  photograph  of 
Mally  on  the  bedroom  wall  in  her  wedding-gown 
looked  down  upon  her  through  the  yellow  gloom  of  the 
night  lamp,  and  the  eyes  seemed  to  Anna  full  of  sad 
upbraiding. 

In  bitterness  of  soul  she  groaned  aloud  :  — 

"  Oh,  Mally,  Mally,  I  wanted  to  keep  your  baby,  but 
they  would  not  let  me  !  He  is  going  back  to  you,  dear. 
Oh,  if  I  knew  that  you  were  glad,  that  you  forgive  me  !  " 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  the  child  on  her  knees, 
which  had  been  asleep  or  in  a  stupor,  opened  its  eyes, 
and  lifted  them  to  hers.     They  were  large  blue  eyes  like 


204  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

Mally's,  and  for  a  moment  their  look  was  fixed  upon  her 
own,  —  a  clear,  direct  look,  and,  with  a  thrill  of  awe,  Anna 
felt  a  conscious  look.  The  instant  of  that  mutual  glance 
with  all  of  mystery,  of  joy,  and  of  wonder  which  it  held, 
passed  ;  the  waxen  whiteness  of  the  lids  fell  again,  but, 
as  it  passed,  a  sense  of  great  peace  fell  upon  Anna's  spirit. 
The  last  look  of  that  newborn  soul,  pure  and  undefiled, 
had  searched  her  heart,  had  found  her  love,  had  shed  the 
glory  of  its  passing  into  her  bruised  and  cabined  spirit. 

"  Now  go,  little  child,  go  to  God  and  be  at  rest ;  we 
have  known  each  other,  and  you  are  mine  after  all,"  she 
whispered  fondly,  her  tears  falling  like  spring  rains  upon 
white  blossoms. 

The  dawn-light  came  into  the  room,  dimming  the 
lamp-light  with  which  it  could  not  blend ;  a  tremor 
passed  through  the  tiny  frame,  the  breath  fluttered  once 
or  twice  upon  the  lips,  and  the  baby  died.  Anna  had 
called  the  father,  and  he  stood  by,  watching  in  heavy 
oppression. 

Quietly,  with  the  great  submission  of  spirit  which 
death  brings,  Anna  washed  and  dressed  the  little  body, 
putting  on  the  garments  of  fairylike  texture  and  propor- 
tion which  she  had  seen  Mally  making  with  warm,  dex- 
terous fingers,  a  few  weeks  before.  Then,  having  prayed, 
she  left  the  place  and  walked  home  alone  through  the 
silent  streets,  with  the  consecration  of  the  hour  full  upon 
her. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

He  who  professeth  to  believe  in  one  Almighty  Creator,  and  in  his  Son  Jesus 
Christ,  and  is  yet  more  intent  on  the  honours,  profits,  and  friendships  of  the 
world  than  he  is,  in  singleness  of  heart,  to  stand  faithful  to  the  Christian  reli- 
gion, is  in  the  channel  of  idolatry  ;  while  the  Gentile,  who,  notwithstanding 
some  mistaken  opinions,  is  established  in  the  true  principle  of  virtue,  and  humbly 
adores  an  Almighty  Power,  may  be  of  the  number  that  fear  God  and  work 
righteousness.  — John  Wooman. 

A  physician's  carriage  stood  before  the  house  when 
Anna  reached  it,  and  within  there  was  a  stir  unusual  for 
that  early  hour.  Jane  met  her  on  the  landing,  and  an- 
swered her  questions. 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  Mrs.  Burgess,  she  was  all  right  as  far 
as  I  could  see  when  I  helped  her  get  to  bed,  but  I  hadn't 
got  her  light  out  when  I  heard  her  give  a  queer  kind  of 
groan,  and  when  I  got  to  her,  her  face  was  that  twisted 
all  to  one  side,  that  it  would  make  your  heart  ache  to  see 
her.  But  that  isn't  so  bad  now ;  you'd  hardly  notice  it. 
And  she  don't  seem  paralyzed;  she  moves  'most  any  way." 

"  Then  she  is  better  ?  " 

"  Well,  ma'am,  I  don't  know  as  you  could  say  so 
much  better.  The  worst  of  it  is,  her  mind  ain't  right. 
She  looks  sort  of  blank,  and  when  she  talks  it  ain't  natu- 
ral, but  all  confused  like,  and  it's  hard,  poor  lady,  for  her 
to  get  anything  out ;  she  talks  thick  and  slow,  so  differ- 
ent from  herself." 

A  moment  later  Anna  saw  Keith,  and  heard  the  ver- 
dict of  the  physician.  Madam  Burgess  had  suffered  a 
paralytic  seizure  of  a  somewhat  unusual  character.  He 
should  watch  the  case  with  great  interest.     There  was 

205 


206  A  Woman   of  Yesterday 

evidently  a  small  clot  on  the  left  side  of  the  brain  which 
affected  the  mental  equilibrium,  and  produced  something 
like  delirium.  The  ultimate  result  could  only  be  fatal, 
and  it  was  doubtful  whether  full  consciousness  would 
return  before  death. 

That  afternoon  Anna  was  permitted  to  go  to  her 
mother-in-law's  bedside.  Keith  followed  her,  full  of 
eager  hope  that  for  her  there  might  be  the  clear  and 
unquestionable  recognition  which  had  thus  far  been 
denied  him.  It  was  a  strangely  painful  thing  to  Anna 
to  see  the  familiar  figure  of  a  woman  so  graceful, 
so  precise,  so  secure  in  her  high-bred  self-possession,  so 
decided  in  her  conscious  self-direction,  prostrate,  dull, 
lethargic  ;  to  hear  in  place  of  the  cold,  clear  modulations 
of  her  voice  a  meaningless,  half-articulate  muttering. 
She  stood  for  a  moment  beside  the  bed,  her  heart  sink- 
ing with  the  piteousness  of  the  sight,  herself  apparently 
unnoticed  by  the  stricken  woman. 

At  the  foot  of  the  bed  Keith,  standing,  cried  out  as  if 
in  uncontrollable  pain  :  — 

"  Mother,  do  you  see  Anna  ?  She  wants  to  speak  with 
you." 

Slowly  his  mother  turned  her  eyes,  which  had  been 
fixed  straight  before  her,  until  they  rested  full  upon 
Anna  in  a  curious,  disconcerting  stare.  This  continued 
in  silence  for  some  throbbing  seconds,  and  then,  with  thick 
utterance  and  unaccented  monotony  of  modulation,  she 
said,  very  slowly  :  — 

"  If  you  had  married  differently  you  might  have  had 
children  of  your  own." 

This  laboured  sentence,  in  its  violent  discordance  with 
the  filial  tenderness  and  sympathy  which  alone  filled  the 
hearts  of  Keith  and  Anna  at  the  moment,  smote  them 


Afternoon 


207 


both  as  if  with  a  harsh  and  incredible  buffet.  Anna 
turned  away  from  the  bed  white  and  appalled,  and  left 
the  room  at  the  motion  of  the  nurse  while  Keith,  bow- 
ing his  head  upon  the  bed-rail,  groaned  aloud.  Even  in 
the  moment  their  mother  had  fallen  back  into  unintelligible 
confusion  of  speech.  To  them  both  this  sinister  and 
unlooked-for  expression  revealed  something  of  the  weary- 
ways  in  which  the  clouded  mind  was  straying.  Some 
haunting  sense  of  remorse  and  accountability,  vaguely 
felt  and  deviously  followed,  was  torturing  the  dimness 
of  mental  twilight.  Again  and  again  during  the  days 
following,  Anna,  sitting  just  outside  the  bedroom  door, 
heard  the  question  reiterated  in  the  harsh,  toneless 
voice  :  — 

"  Did  that  baby  die  ?  "  And  always,  when  answered, 
there  came  the  same  response,  "  I  said  it  would,  I  said 
it  would  that  night." 

Filled  with  pity  and  compunction  as  she  recalled  the 
severity  of  her  own  utterance  in  that  interview,  the  mem- 
ory of  which  with  the  sick  woman  had  plainly  outlived  all 
Other,  Anna  went  once  more  on  the  third  night  into 
the  sick-room,  knelt  by  the  bed,  and  took  the  hand  of 
the  sufferer  in  both  her  own. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  in  a  strong,  comforting  voice, 
"  mother  dear,  this  is  Anna.  Will  you  forgive  me  for 
my  unkindness  that  night  ?  " 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  Dear  mother,"  Anna  went  on,  with  gentlest  kind- 
ness,  "  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  the  little  baby  has  gone 
to  its  own  mother.      It  is  all  right,  and  I  am  satisfied." 

There  was  a  faint  response  as  of  relief  and  acquiescence. 

Then,  as  Anna  still  held  the  limp,  unresisting,  unre- 
sponding  hand  and  looked   tenderly  in  the  grey,  changed 


208  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

face,  Sarah  Burgess  spoke  once  more.      Broken  and  fal- 
teringlv  came  the  words  :  — 

"  I  am  .  .  .  sorry  .  .  .  you  have  ...  no  child," 
and,  as  she  spoke,  large,  slow  tears  rolled  down  her 
face. 

It  was  the  first  time  in  all  their  intercourse  that  she 
had  opened  her  heart  to  Anna  in  motherly  pity.  Perhaps 
she  could  not  before,  the  defences  of  pride  and  reserve 
were  sunk  too  deep.  But  the  few  words,  the  tears,  the 
glimpse  of  a  heart  which,  whatever  its  hardness,  itself 
knew  the  passion  of  motherhood  and  could  understand 
her  pain,  broke  down  for  the  younger  woman  the  last 
remaining  barriers  which  had  stood  between  these  two 
who  had  lived  together  so  coldly.  Anna  laid  her  head 
on  the  pillow  and  kissed  the  face  of  the  dying  woman 
again  and  again,  their  tears  mingling,  while  pity  and 
tenderness  overflowed  the  coldness  and  all  the  silent 
resentments  of  the  past. 

Two  days  later  Madam  Burgess  died,  not  having 
spoken  again,  although  she  had  plainly  recognized 
Keith  and  watched  him  with  wistful  eyes. 

The  burial  and  the  various  incidents  connected  with 
the  close  of  a  long  life,  and  one  of  social  eminence,  over, 
Keith  and  Anna  turned  back  to  the  home,  now  wholly 
their  own,  and  looked  about  them  wondering  what  was 
in  the  future.  Like  all  men  and  women  of  gentle  will, 
they  blotted  out,  at  once  and  forever,  every  impression 
of  unworthiness  or  selfishness  which  their  dead  had  ever 
made  upon  them.  They  idealized  her  narrow  character, 
and  loved  her  better  than  they  ever  had,  perhaps,  in  life ; 
but  underneath  all  this  dutiful  loyalty  Anna  found  in 
her  own  heart  a  recognition  of  great  release,  and  at 
times,  in  spite  of  her  will,  her  pulses  would  bound  and 


Afternoon 


209 


leap  with  the  sense  of  new  possibilities  in  life  for  them 
both. 

Just  what  these  possibilities  might  be  was  by  no 
means  clear  to  Anna,  nor  how  far  Keith  would  sym- 
pathize with  her  own  vague  but  dominant  desires  for  a 
return  in  some  sort  to  the  working  motives  which  had 
swayed  their  earlier  lives.  She  was  greatly  encouraged 
by  the  response  which  she  received  to  her  timid  approach 
to  the  subject  of  some  slight  changes  in  their  outward 
method  of  life  in  favour  of  simpler  and  more  democratic 
habits.  The  horses  and  carriage  and  liveried  servants 
had  long  been  a  source  of  distress  to  Anna's  conscience, 
as  marks  of  a  privileged  and  separate  class.  She  had 
always  avoided  employing  them  as  far  as  was  possible. 
She  had  never,  since  she  had  begun  reading  the  social 
essays  of  Gregory,  driven  in  the  family  carriage  without 
longing  to  apologize  to  every  working  man  and  woman 
whose  glance  rested  upon  her,  for  a  luxury  which  she 
felt  to  be  in  their  eyes  divisive,  while  all  the  time  her 
heart  was  crying  out  for  brotherhood  and  burden-sharing 
with  the  lowliest  and  most  oppressed  among  them. 

Somewhat  to  her  surprise  she  found  that  Keith  was 
not  without  a  similar  consciousness,  any  expression  of 
which,  even  to  Anna,  he  had  scrupulously  avoided  in 
his  mother's  lifetime.  Finding  herself  met  here,  and 
thus  emboldened,  Anna  came  to  her  husband  one  even- 
ing with  a  question  which  involved  serious  doubt  and 
difficulty  for  her.  It  was  two  months  since  the  death 
of  Madam  Burgess,  and  Anna  was  to  start  the  following 
morning  for  Vermont  for  a  visit  of  several  weeks  to  her 
mother  and  Lucia.  Keith  was  too  busy  with  the  details 
of  settling  his  mother's  estate  to  accompany  her,  but  it 
had  been  planned  that  he  should  meet  her  in  Burlington 
p 


210  A  Woman   of  Yesterday 

on  her  return,  late  in  May,  and  together  with  her  make 
a  visit,  long-promised  and  long-postponed,  at  the  Ingra- 
hams',  whose  friendship  for  them  both  had  remained 
unchanged   by  the  years. 

And  now  the  postman  had  brought  Anna  a  note  from 
Mrs.  Ingraham  which  took  her  back  strangely  to  her 
girlhood,  and  to  one  March  night  when  she  had  first 
received  a  like  request  from  the  same  source.  This 
note  asked  her  to  come,  when  she  came  for  the  prom- 
ised visit,  prepared  to  give  a  missionary  address  at  a 
meeting  which  would  take  place  at  that  time  in  Bur- 
lington. 

Anna  handed  the  note  to  her  husband,  and,  as  he  fin- 
ished the  perusal  of  it,  she  said  hesitatingly  :  — 

"  Keith,  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  Why,  dear  ?  Why  not  simply  do  as  Mrs.  Ingra- 
ham asks  ?      You  would  like  to,  would  you  not  ?  " 

"  Once  I  would  have,  only  too  gladly,"  and  Anna 
paused  a  moment,  recalling  the  opposition  to  which  she 
had  yielded  so  unwillingly  in  the  time  past.  That  out- 
ward and  forcible  opposition  was  now  wholly  removed, 
but  another  restraint,  subtle  and  subjective,  had  gradu- 
ally taken  its  place,  although  Anna  had  until  now 
scarcely  recognized   the   existence  of  it. 

"  I  am  afraid,  if  I  tell  you,"  she  resumed,  "you  will 
be  shocked  and  pained.  Perhaps  I  cannot  even  put  it 
into  words,  and  not  overstate  what  is  in  my  mind  ;  but 
the  trouble  is,  Keith,  I  am  afraid  I  don't  believe  every- 
thing just  as  I  used  to." 

Keith  Burgess  looked  at  her  with  his  gentle  smile. 
"  Go  on,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  Dear,  it  is  verv  strange,"  and  Anna  spoke  with 
sudden    impetuousness ;    "  but    I    suppose    I    have    not 


Afternoon  211 

really  a  right  to  speak  for  missions,  for  I  cannot,  any 
more,    believe    that    God   will    condemn    to    everlasting 
torment  all  the  heathen  who  do  not  believe  in  a  means 
of  salvation  of  which  they  have  never  heard." 
"  Neither  can  I." 

"  Keith  !  "  Anna  felt  her  breath  almost  taken  away 
by  this  sudden  admission  of  what,  in  the  seventies, 
was  rank  heresy  in  strictly  orthodox  circles.  "Why 
have  you  never  let  me  suspect  such  a  change  in  your 
views  ?  Has  this  had  something  to  do  with  your  giv- 
ing up  the  secretaryship  ?  Was  it  not  then  quite  all 
your  health  ?  Oh,  Keith,  if  you  knew  how  I  have  been 
troubled  !  " 

The  tumult  of  Anna's  surprise  broke  out  in  this  swift 
volley  of  questions,  for  which  she  could  not  wait  for 
answers. 

"  How  have  you  been  troubled  ?  Tell  me  that  first, 
Anna." 

Anna's  colour  came  and  went.  It  was  not  easy  to 
speak,  but  honesty  and  frankness  were  the  law  of 
speech  with  her.      Very  seriously  she  said  :  — 

"  It  seemed  so  strange  to  me  that  you  grew,  after  the 
first  few  years,  into  what  often  appeared  a  kind  of 
official  and  perfunctory  way  of  working  —  letting  the 
details  cover  the  great  purposes.  It  seemed  little,  and 
different  from  what  I  had  expected.  Tables  and  figures 
and  endless  reports  —  it  was  all  business,  and  almost 
like  other  business." 

Keith  Burgess  nodded  gravely.  «  Go  on,"  he  said, 
as  before. 

"And  then,  you  see,  all  at  once  you  dropped  it. 
Of  course  you  had  that  illness,  and  I  could  see  how 
tiresome  and  troubling  the  work  had  come  to  be  ;  but 


212  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

I  used  to  think  —  forgive  me,  Keith  ;  I  hated  myself  that 
I  did  —  that  you  dropped  the  whole  missionary  endeavour 
and  purpose  and  point  of  view  as  easily  as  you  might 
have  dropped  a  coat  that  you  had  worn  out  —  " 

"In  short,  that  it  was  all  officialism." 

"Yes,  even  that  —  that  it  had  come  to  be.  And  you 
know  how  different  it  was  at  first,  when  it  was  your 
only  life." 

"  Yes,  Anna,"  and  the  delicate,  sensitive  face  of  the 
man  showed  something  of  the  profound  pain  which  he 
could  not  speak ;  "  it  has  been  a  hard  experience.  I 
have  kept  it  to  myself  because  I  did  not  think  it  was 
fair  to  lay  upon  you  the  same  burden  of  doubt  and 
conflict.  I  see  how  naturally  you  came  to  look  upon 
the  change  in  me  as  you  have  described.  Perhaps 
your  view  is  in  a  measure  just,  too,  but  I  think  not 
altogether." 

"  Tell  me,  Keith."  Anna  was  waiting  for  him  to  go 
on  with  sympathetic  eagerness. 

"  It  was  simply  that,  some  way,  I  hardly  know  how, — 
perhaps  it  was  in  part  worldliness  and  selfishness,  but  I 
think  not  altogether,  —  my  views  gradually  have  changed. 
Perhaps  it  was  in  the  air,  perhaps  I  took  it  in  uncon- 
sciously from  what  I  read,  and  from  my  deeper  thought 
of  God  and  his  grace.  What  I  learned  of  the  various 
forms  of  heathen  religions  influenced  me  somewhat,  and 
also  observation  of  the  workings  of  our  own  system  in 
our  own  country  even  under  most  favouring  conditions. 
I  cannot  tell,  only  I  came  definitely  at  last  to  the  point 
where  I  could  no  longer  go  before  the  churches  and 
plead  with  them  to  send  their  money  to  foreign  missions 
to  save  the  heathen  from  immediate  eternal  perdition 
and  torment,  because  they  did  not  believe  in  the  plan  of 


Afternoon  213 

salvation  by  a  Saviour  of  whom,  as  you  say,  they  had 
never  heard." 

"  What  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  You  see,"  Keith  went  on,  not  noticing  her  ques- 
tion, "  according  to  our  confession  there  is  no  salvation 
even  in  any  ordinary  knowledge  of  Christ,  but  only  for 
the  elect  few  who  experience  personal  regeneration  by 
conscious  acceptance  according  to  the  line  laid  by  such 
men  as  Calvin  and  Edwards.  Now  we  know  that  judged 
by  this  test  a  very  large  percentage  of  any  so-called 
Christian  community  is  doomed  to  eternal  punishment, 
and  when  you  come  to  the  heathen,  it  grows  unthinkable 
—  do  you  see  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  feel." 

"  I  went  very  soon  to  Dr.  Durham,  and  poured  out  a 
full  confession  of  my  '  unsoundness.'  " 

"What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  Anna,  that  was  what  settled  me.  I  almost  think 
that  if  he  had  said,  c  Stop  where  you  are,  and  wait  until 
you  can  see  it  differently,'  I  might  have  come  back  to 
my  early  convictions  in  some  sort,  at  least  sufficiently 
to  give  me  a  motive  for  working  on.  What  he  did  say, 
in  his  large,  hearty  way,  was  :  '  Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  there 
is  nothing  more  common  than  such  doubts  and  questions  ! 
They  naturally  arise  from  time  to  time  with  us  all. 
Probably  not  half  the  men  who  are  at  work  in  this 
cause  actually  believe  literally  in  the  common  concep- 
tion that  the  heathen  who  do  not  know  of  Christ  are 
all  condemned.  Oh,  no,  I  ceased  to  hold  any  such 
opinion  long  ago.'  c  Then  why  don't  you  say  so  openly? ' 
I  asked  ;  to  which  he  replied  impressively  :  l  Don't  you 
see,  Burgess,  that  if  we  told  our  change  of  views  to  the 
churches  at  large  we  should  cut  the  very  nerve  of  the 


214  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

missionary  motive  ?  We  may  hold  these  slightly  modi- 
fied views  on  eschatology  ourselves  without  detriment, 
perhaps,  or  danger,  although  of  course  they  must  be  held 
well  in  hand  ;  but  if  we  should  speak  them  out  to  the 
rank  and  file,  the  result  would  be  an  instant  falling  off 
in  the  receipts  of  our  treasury,  and  the  Lord  knows  they 
are  small  enough  and  inadequate  enough  as  it  is.  The 
average  man  would  reason,  if  the  heathen  can  be  saved 
after  all  in  some  other  way,  it  is  not  necessary  for  me  to 
deny  myself  in  order  to  send  them  the  gospel.  So  keep 
still,  my  dear  Burgess,  just  keep  your  views  to  yourself 
as  some  of  the  rest  of  us  do.  Go  right  along  as  you 
have  been  doing,  and  there  will  be  no  harm  done.' ' 

"  Keith,  dear  Dr.  Durham  did  not  know  it,  but  that 
is  Jesuitism  !  "   exclaimed  Anna,  with  flashing  eyes. 

"I  thought  it  was,"  he  replied  quietlv,  "  and  the  result 
was  I  gave  up  my  office,  partly  on  account  of  my  health, 
partly  because  I  could  not  continue  what  would  actually 
have  been,  for  me,  getting  money  under  false  pre- 
tences." 

"  Still,  Keith,  it  is  not  only  to  save  the  heathen  from 
everlasting  punishment  that  we  want  to  send  the  gospel, 
but  to  give  them  the  present  salvation  from  sin." 

"  Certainly.  There  are  other  motives  left.  I  think 
they  may  be  sufficient  to  energize  our  work  far  beyond 
what  the  Gospel  of  Fear  could  do,  but  they  are  not  at 
present  the  popular  motives  to  which  I  am  expected  to 
appeal.  The  future  of  the  cause  is  not  clear  to  me.  If 
Durham  is  right,  and  the  nerve  of  missions  will  be  cut 
when  people  cease  to  believe  that  the  heathen  are  neces- 
sarily damned  because  they  have  not  accepted  Christ, 
why  then  I  have  little  hope,  because  it  seems  to  me  im- 
possible   for   thinking  people    to    hold    this    view    much 


Afternoon  11$ 

longer.  But  I  must  admit  that  it  is  hard  enough  to  get 
them  to  give  money  when  they  believe  implicitly  in  the 
immediate  and  hopeless  doom  of  every  heathen  soul 
departing  to  judgment." 

"  Keith,  they  don't  believe  it  !  Nobody  believes  it !  It 
is  monstrous.  If  we  really  believed  such  things  as  prac- 
tically taking  place,  we  should  all  lose  our  reason.  Our 
only  escape  from  insanity,  I  believe,  is  that,  while  with 
our  mouths  and  with  our  opinions  we  have  declared  such 
things,  in  our  hearts  and  in  our  deeper  conviction  we 
have  denied  them,  knowing  that  they  would  be  treason 
to  God.  What  misleads  us  all,  Keith,  I  am  beginning 
to  believe,  is  that  we  have  felt  bound  to  accept  a  system 
which  theologians  have  worked  out,  and  which  has  in- 
volved a  paring  down  of  both  God  and  man  to  make 
them  fit  into  the  narrow  grooves  they  have  assigned 
them  in  the  hard  logic  of  their  formulas." 

"Well,  let  us  make  this  question  concrete;  illustrate 
it  from  life,"  said  Keith,  leaning  back  languidly  in  his 
arm-chair.  "  How  is  it  with  yourself  ?  You  have  been 
taught,  and  have  believed  until  very  recently,  this  doc- 
trine of  universal  condemnation  of  all  heathen  '  out  of 
Christ,'  and  now,  it  seems,  you  have  begun  to  question 
it.  What  is  the  effect  on  the  missionary  motive  in  your 
case  ?  Would  you  feel  as  eager  as  ever  to  go  as  a  mis- 
sionary ?  Does  the  subject  appeal  to  your  conscience 
as  powerfully  as  before  ?  " 

Anna  looked  at  Keith  for  a  moment  in  thoughtful 
silence,  and  then  shook  her  head. 

"  No." 

"You  see  Dr.  Durham  was  right,"  said  Keith,  sadly. 
"  If  this  is  true  of  you,  who  have  all  your  life  been 
pledged  to  this  work,  —  and  I  admit  that  it   is  true  of 


116  A   Woman  of  Yesterday 

myself,  —  what  can  be  expected  of  the  careless  crowd, 
indifferent  at  best  ?  " 

Anna  had  been  walking  restlessly  up  and  down  the 
library.  Now  she  came  back  to  the  heavy  black  oak  table 
at  which  her  husband  was  sitting,  sat  down,  and,  resting 
her  elbows  on  the  table,  propped  her  chin  in  both  hands, 
and  so  sat  silently  for  many  moments.  Then  she  began 
to  speak,  but  very  slowly,  rather  as  if  thinking  aloud  :  — 

11 1  have  been  accustomed,  and  so  have  you,  all  our 
lives,  to  the  stimulus,  the  spur,  of  a  piercingly  powerful 
motive,  the  most  powerful  possible,  I  should  think.  — 
To  save  somebody  from  immediate  death  when  the  means 
of  rescue  is  in  your  hands  is  a  motive  to  which  every 
human  being  must  respond,  instinctively.  Suppose  this 
motive  is  shown  to  be,  in  some  degree  at  least,  based 
upon  a  misunderstanding,  and  we  find  that  we  are  asked 
to  alleviate  suffering  instead  of  to  save  life,  why  would 
it  not  be  perfectly  natural,  almost  inevitable,  that  at  first 
there  should  be  a  reaction  ?  Accustomed  to  the  stronger 
stimulus,  just  at  first  our  motives  and  purposes  would 
languish,  I  think.  Mine  do.  I  can't  help  owning  it, 
Keith.  But  I  can  imagine  that  deeper  knowledge  of 
God,  higher  conceptions  of  human  brotherhood,  of  what 
they  call  the  solidarity  of  the  race — things  like  that  — 
which  I  only  dimly  realize  yet,  might  reenforce  our  poor 
wills,  and  knit  again  the  nerve  if  it  has  been  cut.  Don't 
you  think  so  ?  " 

Keith  watched  his  wife  as  she  sat  thus  speaking,  and 
a  great  tenderness  was  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  are  a  very  wonderful  woman,  Anna,"  he  said  ; 
"  your  thought  always  goes  beyond  mine." 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  what  he  said,  for  she  went 
on  in  the  same  musing  tone  :  — 


Afternoon  217 

"  In  a  way,  it  seems  to  me,  sometimes,  as  if  every 
hope,  every  purpose,  every  controlling  motive  with  which 
I  started  out  in  life,  had  slipped  away  from  me,  this  of 
missionary  work  with  the  rest.  All  that  I  thought  I 
could  do  or  become  has  been  rendered  impossible  in  one 
way  or  another,  and  whatever  capacity  or  force  there  is 
in  me  is  unapplied.  I  can't  even  be  a  comfortable  so- 
ciety woman  ;  other  people  won't  let  me,  even  if  I  can 
let  myself,  and  you  know  how  I  find  it  impossible  to  fit 
into  conventional  charities.  Everywhere  I  seem  to  be 
superfluous,  out  of  harmony  with  my  environment.  I 
thought  once,  I  was  vain  enough  to  think,  that  God 
wanted  me  for  some  special  service,  —  that  he  would  give 
me  a  work  for  him  and  for  his  children;  but  I  am  thirty 
years  old  now,  Keith,  and  what  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  You  have  been  a  dear  wife  and  a  faithful  child,  — 
a  true  Christian  woman, —  is  that  not  enough  ?  " 

Anna  smiled  wistfully. 

"  It  is  not  good  for  any  one  to  simply  be,  and  bring 
nothing  to  pass.  But  to-night  I  feel  that  whatever  new 
wine  life  is  to  bring  me  will  have  to  be  put  into  new 
bottles.  The  old  motives  and  forces  have  spent  them- 
selves, and  the  old  hopes ;  and  the  forms  which  held 
them,  have  gone  with  them,  for  me." 


BOOK    III 

NIGHT 

0  Holiest  Truth  !  how  have  I  lied  to  thee ! 

1  vow'd  this  day  thy  sacrifice  to  be ; 

But  I  am  dim  ere  night. 
Surely  I  made  my  prayer,  and  I  did  deem 
That  I  could  keep  in  me  thy  morning  beam, 

Immaculate  and  bright. 
But  my  foot  slipp'd  ;  and,  as  I  lay,  he  came, 
My  gloomy  foe,  and  robb'd  me  of  heaven's  flame. 
Help  thou  my  darkness,  Lord,  till  I  am  light. 

— John  Henry   Newman. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Christianity  has  hitherto  only  partially,  feebly,  and  waveringly  taught  its 
great  doctrine.  Christendom  has  not  believed  its  own  gospel.  Forsaking  the 
vital  religion  of  Jesus,  and  of  all  the  heroes  and  saints  as  impracticable,  men  have 
put  up  with  a  sort  of  conventional  Christianity,  from  which  the  great  essential 
ideas  of  the  Golden  Rule  and  the  real  presence  of  God  were  dropped  out. 

—  C.  F.  Dole. 

"  I  have  spoken  for  three  nights  in  this  place,  and  for 
three  nights  you  have  heard  me  patiently.  I  have  not 
regarded  the  favour  of  any  man,  but  neither  have  I 
wished  to  bruise  or  wound.  And  yet,  as  I  stand  here 
now  for  the  last  time,  I  must  declare  the  whole  truth  as 
it  has  been  given  to  me.  I  have  charged  upon  our 
present  social  and  industrial  conditions  grave  responsi- 
bility. To-night  I  declare  plainly  that  you  who  calmly 
accept  and  profit  by  them,  whether  you  know  it  or 
whether  you  know  it  not,  are  rejecting  Jesus  of  Naza- 
reth and  his  kingdom." 

The  speaker  was  John  Gregory,  the  place  a  large  hall 
in  the  city  of  Burlington,  crowded  to  its  utmost  with 
eager  listeners,  for  the  theories  which  he  proclaimed 
were  new  and  startling  in  that  day. 

As  in  his  earlier  revival  preaching,  so  now,  Gregory's 
utterance  was  attended  with  peculiar  power.  There  was 
this  difference,  however,  between  his  relation  to  his 
audience  now  and  in  that  other  time  :  then  a  familiar 
appeal  was  reenforced,  even  though  involuntarily  and 
unconsciously,  by  the  full  weight  of  his  personal  and 
psychic  influence ;   now  he   relied   wholly,  it    appeared^ 

221 


ill  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

upon  the  dynamic  of  his  message.  His  manner  was 
more  impassioned  than  in  that  earlier  time,  but  less 
exciting. 

Keith  and  Anna  Burgess,  from  their  places  in  the 
audience  with  Mrs.  Ingraham,  whose  guests  they  were, 
watched  and  listened  with  almost  breathless  intensity  of 
interest.      They  had  not  heard  it  on  this  wise  before. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  continued  Gregory,  with  search- 
ing emphasis,  "  that  on  a  certain  day  the  Master  said, 
'Verily  I  say  unto  you,  That  a  rich  man  shall  hardly  enter 
into  the  kingdom  of  heaven  '  ?  Do  you  remember  how 
the  twelve  men  who  followed  him  were  said  to  have  been 
1  exceedingly  amazed  '  ?  From  the  fourth  century,  when 
the  Church  and  the  world  formed  their  unhallowed  union, 
down  to  the  present  day,  men  have  continued  to  be 
4  exceedingly  amazed'  at  a  saying  so  inconvenient  and 
so  revolutionary,  and  have  set  themselves  to  blunt  its 
sharp  edge  or  to  explain  it  away  altogether. 

"  To-night  I  am  here  to  say  to  you  plainlv,  This  is  a 
faithful  saying,  worthy  of  all  acceptation,  and  woe  unto 
him  who  seeks  to  take  it  away  from  the  words  of  Christ. 
Put  with  it,  if  you  will,  other  like  words  from  the  lips 
of  Christ  and  his  Apostles,  rather  than  seek  to  abate  the 
force  of  these.  But  why  are  the  rich  condemned  ? 
Surely  they  are  the  most  law-abiding,  most  influential 
class  in  every  community  !  Because  the  riches  of  the 
rich  man  are  founded  upon  a  lie  !  This  is  the  lie  :  that 
a  man  has  the  right  to  build  up  his  own  prosperity  and  enjoy- 
ment upon  the  suffering  and  privation  of  his  fellow-men. 

"  Ask  yourselves,  men  who  listen  to  me  now,  do  I 
tell  the  truth  ? 

"  You  made  your  money  in  trade  ;  very  well  —  is  trade 
just?      Could  you,  under  present  conditions,  have  made 


Night  223 

money,  had  you  dealt  justly  and  loved  mercy  ?  had  you 
lived  the  truth,  shown  the  truth  ?  Could  your  trade 
have  prospered  if  you  had  followed  the  simplest  rule 
of  Christ,  c  Do  unto  others  as  ye  would  have  them  do 
unto  you '  ? 

"  Is  not  the  very  basis  of  your  trade  and  of  your  gains 
that  you  force  other  men  into  failure,  dejection,  and 
poverty,  and  rise  upon  the  wreck  of  them  ?  Well  has 
it  been  said,  '  A  rich  man's  happiness  is  built  up  of  a 
thousand  poor  men's  sorrows.' 

"  Many  men  make  their  money  in  manufacture,  per- 
haps not  largely  so  in  this  city ;  but  the  conditions  are 
familiar  to  us  all.  Very  well,  is  manufacture  true  to 
God,  true  to  men  ? 

"  The  profits,  we  will  say  of  a  given  manufacture, 
were  not  great  enough  last  year ;  the  owners  had  a  large 
income,  but  not  as  large  as  they  wanted ;  some  of  the 
rich  stockholders  grumbled.  What  did  they  do  ?  They 
reduced  the  beggarly  wages  of  the  toilers  in  their  iron 
prisons,  sent  them  home  to  their  wives  and  children 
with  less  than  sufficed  to  give  them  daily  bread  and 
shelter,  and  they  knew  it.  They  sent  pure  girls  to  the 
life  of  shame,  and  honest  men  to  the  black  refuge  of 
despair.  Thus  they  declared  their  dividend,  and  their 
rich  neighbours  praised  their  business  genius  and  pocketed 
their  share  of  the  gains  complacently;  and  the  rich  grew 
richer,  and  the  poor,  poorer.  This  done,  they  come 
before  God  with  pious  words ;  they  pass  boxes  in  the 
churches  to  gather  the  widows'  and  the  orphans'  mites 
whose  burdens  they  do  not  lift,  no,  not  with  one  finger ; 
they  build  a  hospital  now  and  then  ;  they  found  a  uni- 
versity, and  their  names  are  exalted;  they  sit  in  their 
homes  with  all  their  treasures  of  art,  of  intellect,  and  of 


224  -A-  Woman   of  Yesterday 

refinement  about  them,  and  thank  the  Lord  that  they 
are  not  as  other  men  are,  or  even  as  that  poor  fellow 
they  hear  reeling,  profane  and  drunken,  down  the  street, 
because  no  home  is  his,  no  hope,  no  God. 

"  Hear  the  words  which  God  hath  sworn  by  his  holy 
prophets : 

"  '  Forasmuch,  therefore,  as  your  treading  is  upon  the 
poor,  and  ye  take  from  him  burdens  of  wheat ;  ye  have 
built  houses  of  hewn  stone,  but  ye  shall  not  dwell  in 
them  ;  ye  have  planted  pleasant  vineyards,  but  ye  shall 
not  drink  wine  of  them. 

" '  For  I  know  your  manifold  transgressions  and  your 
mighty  sins;  they  afflict  the  just,  they  take  a  bribe,  and 
they  turn  aside  the  poor  in  the  gate  from  their  right. 

"  <  Woe  to  the  City  of  Blood  ! 

" '  Woe  unto  them  that  join  house  to  house,  that  lay 
field  to  field,  till  there  be  no  place,  that  they  may  be 
placed  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  earth  ! 

" 4  Woe  to  them  that  are  at  ease  in  Zion  !  .  .  .  that 
lie  upon  beds  of  ivory  and  stretch  themselves  upon  their 
couches,  and  eat  the  lambs  out  of  the  flock,  and  the 
calves  out  of  the  midst  of  the  stall,  that  chant  to  the 
sound  of  the  viol  and  invent  to  themselves  instruments 
of  music,  .  .  .  that  drink  wine  in  bowls  and  anoint 
themselves  with  the  chief  ointments ;  but  they  are  not 
grieved  for  the  affliction  of  Joseph  ! 

" '  Woe  to  him  that  buildeth  a  town  with  blood,  and 
establisheth  a  city  by  iniquity  ! 

" '  Neither  their  silver  nor  their  gold  shall  be  able  to 
deliver  them  in  the  day  of  the  Lord's  wrath. 

" '  For,  behold,  the  Lord  said  unto  me,  What  seest 
thou  ?  And  I  said,  A  plumb-line.  Then  said  the 
Lord,  Behold,  I  will  set  a  plumb-line  in  the  midst  of 


Night  225 

my  people  Israel  :   I  will  not  again  pass  by  them  any 
more. 

" l  For  judgment  will  I  lay  to  the  line  and  righteous- 
ness to  the  plumb-line  :  and  the  hail  shall  sweep  away 
the  refuge  of  lies,  and  the  waters  shall  overflow  the 
hiding-place. 

" '  For  ye  have  said,  We  have  made  a  covenant  with 
death,  and  with  hell  are  we  at  agreement ;  we  have  made 
lies  our  refuge,  and  under  falsehood  have  we  hid  our- 
selves. 

" '  But  your  covenant  with  death  shall  be  disannulled 
and  your  agreement  with  hell  shall  not  stand.'  " 

As  the  speaker  went  on  marshalling  and  massing  with 
stern  conviction  the  tremendous  indictments  and  declara- 
tions of  the  Hebrew  prophets,  which  the  people  before 
him  had  never  heard  thus  definitely  applied  to  their  own 
social  conditions,  the  dramatic  effect  became  irresistible. 
A  mighty  blast  of  wind  seemed  to  bow  their  heads,  and 
many  trembled  and  grew  pale. 

Suddenly  John  Gregory,  whose  whole  face  and  figure 
had  been  rigid  and  set  with  the  awe  of  what  he  spoke, 
stepped  out  to  the  very  edge  of  the  platform,  and,  with 
a  gesture  of  gentleness  and  reconcilement,  and  a  smile 
which   relaxed  the  tense  mood  of  his  hearers,  cried  :  — 

"  But  this  is  not  all !  Never  did  the  prophets  leave 
the  people  without  a  ray  of  hope  —  never  did  they  with- 
hold 

"  '  Belief  in  plan  of  God  enclosed  in  time  and  space, 
Health,  peace,  salvation.' 

"  '  Is  it  a  dream  ? 

Nay,  but  the  lack  of  it  a  dream, 
And  failing  it  life's  love  and  wealth  a  dream, 
And  all  the  world  a  dream.'  " 
Q 


2i6  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

These  words  were  spoken  with  no  less  conviction 
than  those  which  had  gone  before,  but  the  change  of 
voice,  of  expression,  of  attitude  and  gesture,  were  those 
which  only  a  master  of  oratory  could  have  so  swiftly 
effected.  The  audience,  now  wholly  under  his  control, 
felt  a  new  thrill  of  comfort,  of  hope,  even  of  exultation. 

"  The  Spirit  of  God  is  brooding  in  the  bosom  of  all 
this  chaos,  and  a  new  day  dawns.  Fear  not,  but  look 
within.  Your  own  heart  confesses  the  bond  of  brother- 
hood which  unites  you  to  all  the  race.  Let  your  heart 
speak. 

"  Men  everywhere  see  the  new  light,  and  confess  and 
deny  not  that  it  is  the  true  light,  the  light  which  lighteth 
every  man  coming  into  the  world,  until  sin  and  selfish- 
ness quench  it. 

"  The  day  is  come  when  men  shall  no  longer  greedily 
seek  their  own  salvation;  the  straitened  individualism 
of  the  fathers  has  had  its  day  ;  even  the  passion  for  per- 
sonal perfection  is  refined  selfishness  from  the  new  point 
of  view.  Many  Christian  souls  have  been  misled  in  the 
past  by  the  mistaken  idea  of  self-sacrifice  and  renuncia- 
tion, not  for  their  results  to  humanity,  but  for  the  per- 
fecting of  self,  a  fruitless,  joyless,  Christless  thing.  The 
continual  seeking  for  the  safety  here  and  hereafter  of  the 
individual  —  the  man's  own  advantage,  what  if  spirit- 
ual ?  —  held  up  always  as  his  chief  and  noblest  aim, 
have  resulted  in  Christianity  becoming  a  symbol  for  sub- 
limated selfishness. 

"  A  greater,  nobler  motive  is  ours  to-day  —  no  new 
gospel,  but  a  right  reading  of  the  old,  a  deeper  insight 
into  his  purpose  who  said, '  If  any  man  serve  me,  let  him 
follow  me.' 

"  Here  may  we,  at  last,  and   perhaps  for  the  first  time 


Night  227 

in  long  years  of  blind  and  baffled  longing  for  the  fellow- 
ship of  Christ  our  Sacrifice,  learn  the  awful  joy  of  dying 
in  our  own  lives  that  so  we  may  not  live  alone. 

"Your  soul  cannot  rise  toward  God,  my  brother 
while  you  are  treading  down  other  souls  beneath  your 
feet.  Cease  the  hopeless  effort.  Take  the  world's  bur- 
den on  your  heart,  and  you  shall  know  Christ.  Refuse 
the  joys  which  can  only  be  for  the  few  and  the  rich. 
Take  nothing  but  what  you  can  share.  Learn  poverty 
and  simplicity  and  hardihood  ;  unlearn  luxury,  exclusive- 
ness,  epicureanism.  Be  pioneers  in  the  new  state,  apos- 
tles of  the  new-old  gospel  — the  Gospel  of  Brotherhood, 
of  Fellowship,  of  Sacrifice." 

As  Anna  Mallison,  in  her  early  girlhood,  had  re- 
sponded with  swift,  unquestioning  response  to  the  simple 
appeal  of  the  missionary,  and  had  offered  herself  unre- 
servedly to  the  work  of  seeking  lost  souls  in  the  heathen 
world,  so  now,  in  the  maturity  of  her  womanhood,  her 
inmost  soul  confessed  that  her  hour  had  come.  The 
message  of  John  Gregory,  heard  vaguely  and  partially 
before,  had  now  reached  her  fully,  and  she  found  its 
claim  upon  her  irresistible. 

"  Where  this  leads,  I  follow,"  a  voice  said  in  her  heart ; 
"  I  follow  though  I  die  !      It  is  for  this  I  have  waited." 

Turning,  she  looked  into  her  husband's  face,  and  their 
eyes  met.  Keith  Burgess  read  what  he  intuitively  ex- 
pected in  the  deep  awe  of  Anna's  eyes  ;  while  she  read  in 
his  a  sympathy  and  response,  real,  and  yet  strangely  sad. 
Gregory  had  been  about  to  leave  the  platform,  his 
address  ended;  but  the  audience  sat  unmoving,  as  if  they 
would  hear  more.  A  man  rose  up  then,  in  the  middle 
of  the  hall,  and  spoke. 

"Mr.   Gregory,"   he  said,  "some  of  the  people  are 


228  A   Woman  of  Yesterday 

saying  that,  having  told  us  so  much,  you  ought  to  tell  us 
more.  If  it  is  true  that  you  have  some  scheme  or  system 
by  which  people  like  us  could  live  such  a  life  as  you 
describe,  we  want  to  hear  about  it." 

Having  so  said,  he  sat  down. 

John  Gregory  turned  about  and  came  slowly  back  to 
his  former  place.  Here  he  stood,  confronting  the  people 
with  a  gravely  musing  smile.  Again,  as  she  saw  him, 
there  swept  over  Anna's  memory  the  sense  that  this  was 
the  presence  of  her  girlish  dream,  and  the  old  indefinable 
sense  of  joy  in  the  power  of  this  man  was  shed  into  her 
heart. 

"  You  want  to  hear  me  say  something  about  Frater- 
nia,  I  suppose,"  said  Gregory,  slowly. 

"  I  am  not  here  for  that  purpose.  I  covet  no  man's 
silver  or  gold  for  my  project,  let  that  be  distinctly  under- 
stood first  of  all.  Fraternia  has  not  had  to  beg  for  sup- 
port, thus  far.  Men  and  women  who  are  like-minded 
with  ourselves  are  welcome  to  join  themselves  to  us. 
No  others  need  apply,"  and  he  smiled  a  peculiar, 
humorous  smile  of  singular  charm. 

"  Fraternia,"  he  continued,  "  is  an  experiment.  It  is 
only  a  year  old.  Is  is  what  may  be  called  a  cooperative 
colony,  I  should  think;  that  is,  a  little  community  of 
people  who  believe  that  no  one  ought  to  be  idle  and 
no  'one  ought  to  overwork,  and  accordingly  all  work  a 
reasonable  number  of  hours  a  day.  We  also  believe 
that  an  aristocratic,  privileged  class  is  not  a  good  thing, 
not  even  a  necessary  evil,  but  a  mere  gross  product  of 
human  selfishness.  We  have  none,  accordingly,  in 
Fraternia,  nor  anything  corresponding  to  it.  We  are 
all  on  a  precisely  equal  footing.  That  bitterest  and 
tightest  of  all  class  distinctions,  the  aristocracy  of  money, 


Night  229 

is  unknown  among  us.  Those  who  have  joined  us  have 
thus  far  put  their  property  into  the  common  treasury,  and 
all  fare  alike.  We  propose  to  work  out  this  social  prob- 
lem on  actual  and  practical  lines.  We  all  work  and  all 
share  alike  in  the  results  of  our  work. 

"  You  will  ask  what  we  do.  Fraternia  lies  in  a  valley 
among  the  foothills  of  southwestern  North  Carolina.  We 
raise  all  kinds  of  fruit,  some  grain,  and  some  cotton.  We 
have  water-power,  a  mountain  stream  as  beautiful  as  it  is 
useful,  and  so  we  have  built  a  cotton  mill.  We  have 
made  it  as  pretty  as  we  could,  this  mill,  —  better  than 
any  man's  house,  since  the  house  is  for  the  individual, 
and  the  mill  for  the  use  of  all.  By  the  same  token  our 
church  and  our  library  are  to  be  finer  than  our  houses 
when  we  advance  so  far  as  to  build  them.  We  have 
nothing  costly  or  luxurious  in  Fraternia,  but  our  mill  is 
really  very  attractive.  We  all  like  to  work  in  it.  You 
know  it  is  natural  to  like  to  work  under  human  and 
decent  conditions.  I  believe  no  man  ever  liked  absolute 
idleness.  It  is  overwork  and  work  under  hideous  and 
unwholesome  conditions  against  which  men  revolt. 

"  In  our  personal  and  home  life,  simplicity  and  hardi- 
hood are  the  key-notes.  No  servants  are  employed,  for 
all  serve.  Our  luxuries  are  the  mountain  laurel  and  pine, 
the  exquisite  sky  and  air,  the  voices  of  the  forest,  the 
crystal  clearness  of  the  brook.  In  these  we  all  share. 
So  do  we  in  the  books  and  the  few  good  pictures  which 
we  are  so  happy  as  to  own  ;  in  the  best  music  we  can 
muster  and  in  the  service  of  divine  worship.  Life  is 
natural,  homelv,  simple,  joyous.  Its  motive  :  By  love, 
serve  one  another.  From  no  one  is  the  privilege  of  ser- 
vice withheld.  Thank  God,  we  have  no  forlorn  leisure 
class. 


230  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  Our  mission,  however,  is  not  to  ourselves  alone,  but 
to  the  world  outside.  We  are  holding  up,  by  our  daily 
living,  a  constant  object-lesson.  We  are  preaching  co- 
operation and  social  brotherhood  louder  than  any  voice 
can  ever  preach  it,  and  the  small  child  and  the  simple 
girl  can  preach  as  well  as  the  cultured  woman  and  the 
strong  man. 

"  Who  are  we  ?  We  are  mostly  from  England,  many 
from  the  slums  of  London,  others  from  its  higher  circles, 
some  Germans  and  Scandinavians,  and  thus  far  not  more 
than  a  dozen  American  families.  Some  of  us  had  noth- 
ing to  begin  with,  and  some  had  large  property  ;  some  were 
so  unfortunate  as  to  belong  to  the  number  of  those  who 
oppress  the  poor  in  mills  and  mines,  while  others  were 
simple  peasants.  We  have  no  difficulty  in  living  happily 
together  on  the  broad  basis  of  a  common  human  nature, 
a  common  purpose,  and  a  common  hope. 

"  But  there  is  another  side  to  this  adventure,  friends," 
and  Gregory  spoke  with  deeper  seriousness.  "  Fraternia 
is  nothing  unless  it  is  builded  on  the  immutable  laws  of 
God  and  of  righteousness.  Never,  never  can  we  succeed 
if  sin  grows  little  to  us  and  self  large.  Our  message  will 
be  taken  from  us,  our  arm  will  be  paralyzed,  if  the  day 
shall  ever  come  when  the  lust  of  gold,  the  lust  of  power, 
the  lust  of  pride,  shall  taint  the  free  air  of  our  high  valley. 

"  So  then,  if  any  among  you  would  join  our  ranks,  see 
that  you  shrive  your  souls  and  come  to  us  seeking  only 
the  Kingdom  of  God  and  his  righteousness." 


CHAPTER   XXV 

Sin  and  hedgehogs  are  born  without  spikes,  but  how  they  wound  and  prick 
after  their  birth  we  all  know.  The  most  unhappy  being  is  he  who  feels  remorse 
before  the  deed,  and  brings  forth  a  sin  already  furnished  with  teeth  in  its  birth, 
the  bite  of  which  is  soon  prolonged  into  an  incurable  wound  of  conscience. 

RlCHTER. 

On  the  steps  of  the  rostrum,  as  he  descended  them, 
John  Gregory  was  met  by  a  man  of  singular  aspect,  a 
man  who  has  been  encountered  by  us  before,  in  the 
house  of  Senator  Ingraham,  —  his  son,  Oliver. 

As  the  two  clergymen  whom  he  had  then  addressed 
had  been  disturbed,  and  even  dismayed,  by  this  strange 
face  and  figure,  the  smooth,  egglike  face  with  its  enor- 
mous forehead,  narrow  eyes,  and  wide,  thin-lipped 
mouth,  so  now  Gregory  drew  back  instinctively,  finding 
the  singular  apparition  thus  suddenly  before  him. 

Mr.  Oliver  Ingraham  did  not  appear  to  notice  the 
movement,  but,  smiling  his  peculiarly  complacent  smile, 
held  out  one  long,  sinuous  hand,  and  as  Gregory  took 
it,  not  over  eagerly,  he  remarked  in  his  high,  feminine 
voice  :  — 

"  I  liked  your  line  very  much,  Mr.  Gregory.  Noth- 
ing would  suit  me  better  than  to  see  these  rich  men 
brought  to  book.  They'll  get  their  come-uppance  in  the 
next  world,  anyway ;  but  I  sometimes  get  tired  of  wait- 
ing. It  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  see  Dives,  Esquire, 
taking  his  torments  here  once  in  a  while,  don't  you 
think  so?"  and  the  malevolent  leer  with  which  the  ques- 
tion was  accompanied  gave  Gregory  a  chill  of  disgust. 

231 


1^1  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

Oliver  held  in  his  left  hand  a  handsomely  bound 
note-book  and  silver  pencil-case  which  it  was  his  custom 
to  carry  everywhere.  Gregory,  now  about  to  pass  on, 
and  greet  the  crowds  who  were  waiting  to  speak  with 
him  just  below,  was  again  stopped. 

"Just  a  moment,  Mr.  Gregory,"  said  the  other,  slip- 
ping off  the  elastic,  and  opening  the  note-book  with  the 
dexterity  of  constant  habit ;  "  I  want  you  to  help  me  a 
little  in  gathering  some  very  valuable  statistics.  It's 
rather  in  your  line,  I  take  it.  I  have  been  engaged  in 
this  work  for  several  years,  and  find  it  extremely  inter- 
esting." 

Gregory  noted  the  long,  white,  flexible  fingers  of  the 
man,  and  the  look,  half  of  deficient  intellect  and  half  of 
cunning,  in  his  face. 

"  Please  make  haste,  Mr.  Ingraham,"  he  said  shortly, 
"  there  are  others  waiting." 

"  I  am  making  a  computation,"  Oliver  continued 
imperturbably,  "  in  fact,  a  carefully  tabulated  record,  ac- 
cording to  nations,  of  the  probable  number  of  souls  from 
each  nation  now  in  Sheol  —  it  is  considered  polite  now 
to  call  it  Sheol,  I  believe.  We  used  to  say  hell  when 
we  were  boys,  didn't  we,  Mr.  Gregory  ?  "  and  Oliver 
laughed  his  low,  cruel  laugh. 

"  Excuse  me,"  exclaimed  Gregory,  impatiently ;  u  I 
could  not  give  you  any  information  on  that  subject.  I 
have  never  been  there.  Allow  me  to  pass  on,  if  you 
please." 

Oliver  closed  his  book  as  if  not  unaccustomed  to 
rebuffs  ;  but,  as  Gregory's  forward  movement  obliged  him 
to  retreat  down  the  steps,  he  remarked  slyly :  — 

"  I  had  a  message  to  you  from  the  senator,  if  you  only 
weren't  in  such  a  hurrv.      He  is  one  of  the  fellows  that 


Night  123 

will  have  to  go  to  now,  weep  and  howl.  He  has  the 
shekels,  I  can  tell  you  !  What  he  wants  of  you  is  more 
than  I  can  figure  out.  I  should  suppose  Ahab  would 
as  soon  have  sent  for  Elijah." 

"  Did  your  father  send  for  me  ? "  asked  Gregory, 
surprised.  They  were  now  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  and 
the  crowd  was  gathering  about  them. 

"  Yes  ;  he  would  like  to  see  you  in  his  office  on  this 
same  block,  next  building,  as  soon  as  you  can  get  away 
from  here.  You  work  him  right,  and  you  can  get  some- 
thing out  of  him  for  your  Utopia."  The  last  words  were 
called  back  aloud  with  a  series  of  confidential  nods,  as 
Oliver  turned  and  plunged  into  the  crowd,  who  seemed 
to  make  a  way  for  him  with  especial  facility.  Gregory 
saw  him  go  with  a  keen  sense  of  heat  and  discomfort. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Gregory  found  himself  in  the 
office  of  Senator  Tngraham,  seated  in  a  substantial  office- 
chair  by  the  well-appointed  desk,  while  Mr.  Ingraham, 
himself  in  evident  and  most  unusual  mental  disturbance, 
walked  up  and  down  the  room.  Suddenly  he  wheeled, 
and  confronted  Gregory,  as  if  with  sudden,  though  dif- 
ficult, resolution. 

"Mr.  Gregory,"  he  said,  low,  and  with  the  stern, 
terse  brevity  of  a  man  who  finds  himself  forced  to 
speak  what  he  would  rather  leave  unsaid,  "  for  over 
thirty  years  I  have  carried  certain  facts  in  my  personal 
history  shut  up  in  my  own  memory.  Not  one  other 
being,  to  the  best  of  my  belief,  has  shared  my  knowledge. 
To-night,  I  cannot  tell  how,  I  do  not  know  why,  I  feel 
that  I  must  break  silence,  and  before  you  —  stranger  as 
you  are  —  unload  my  burden.  A  strange  compulsion 
seems  upon  me  to  disclose  the  things  I  have  hitherto 
lived  to  conceal.     What  there  is  in  you  or  in  what  I 


234  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

have  heard  you  say,  to  bring  me  to  this  point,  I  cannot 
understand  ;  but  I  feel  in  you  something  which  makes 
you  alone,  of  all  men  I  have  ever  met,  the  one  to  whom 
I  can  speak  —  and  must.  Are  you  willing  to  hear 
me  ?  " 

John  Gregory  noted  the  set,  hard  lines  in  the  law- 
yer's face,  the  knotted  cords  in  his  hands,  and  the  tone, 
half  of  defiance,  half  of  self-abasement,  with  which  he 
threw  out  this  abrupt  question.  Accustomed  to  encoun- 
ters with  men  in  their  innermost  spiritual  struggles, 
Gregory  was  in  no  way  astonished  or  excited  by  this 
surprising  beginning  of  their  interview,  and  simply  nodded 
gravely  in  token  that  Ingraham  should  proceed. 

"  I  will  not  affront  you  by  demanding  secrecy  on 
your  part,"  the  latter  began  haughtily ;  "  if  it  were 
possible  for  you  to  betray  my  confidence,  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  me  to  give  it  to  you.  I  understand 
men." 

He  paused.  Gregory  made  no  remark  in  confirmation 
of  this  assertion,  but  the  direct,  unflinching  look  with 
which  he  met  the  appeal  in  the  eyes  of  the  speaker  was 
full  guarantee  of  good  faith.  There  was  promise  of 
profound  and  sympathetic  attention  in  Gregory's  look, 
there  was  also  judicial  calmness  and  reserve  ;  in  fine,  the 
characteristics  of  the  priest  and  the  judge  were  singularly 
united  in  him,  and  it  was  to  the  perception  of  this  fact 
that  he  owed  the  present  interview. 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  a  respectable  citizen 
or  a  murderer,"  Ingraham  now  began,  turning  again  to 
walk  the  floor,  while  an  uncontrollable  groan  as  of 
physical  anguish  accompanied  this  unexpected  declara- 
tion. "  Imagine,  if  you  will,  what  thirty  years  have  been 
inwardly  with  this  uncertainty  as  food  for  thought,  served 


Night  235 

to  me  by  conscience,  or  some  fiend,  morning  and  night. 
If  I  could  have  forgotten  for  one  blessed  day,  it  has 
been  ingeniously  rendered  impossible,  for  sin  in  bodily 
form  is  ever  before  me.     You  have  seen  my  son." 

With  this  sentence,  harsh  and  curt,  Ingraham  paused, 
glanced  aside  at  Gregory,  who  assented,  and  then  con- 
tinued to  walk  and  speak.  His  voice  and  manner  alike 
showed  that  he  was  holding  himself  in  control  by  the 
effort  of  all  his  will.  Strange  distorting  lines  appeared 
in  his  face,  and  there  was  heavy  sweat  on  his  forehead. 

"  I  was  twenty-five  years  old  when  I  was  married, 
and  was  alone  in  the  world  save  for  one  brother,  —  Jim,  we 
always  called  him,  —  two  years  younger  than  I.  We  had 
inherited  a  good  name,  strong  physique,  and  some  little 
property  from  our  parents,  and  started  in  life  shoulder  to 
shoulder.  In  Burlington,  where  we  first  began  business 
life  together,  we  became  intimately  acquainted  with  a 
family  in  which  there  were  two  daughters.  The  elder, 
Cornelia,  was  very  pretty  and  singularly  attractive.  Men 
always  fell  in  love  with  her.  I  did,  desperately.  The 
younger  sister  was  a  commonplace,  uninteresting  girl, 
rather  sentimental  perhaps,  not  otherwise  remarkable. 

"  I  shall  make  this  story  as  short  as  possible.  I  offered 
myself  to  Cornelia  after  long  wooing,  and  was  refused. 
I  was  bitterly  wounded,  angry,  defiant.  While  I  was  in 
that  state  of  mind,  it  became  apparent  to  me  that  I  was 
secretly  an  object  of  peculiar  interest  to  the  younger  sister. 
Like  many  another  fool,  half  in  spite  and  half  in  heart- 
sickness,  I  sought  her  hand,  and  was  at  once  accepted, 
and  our  marriage  followed  quickly.  Within  the  year 
Cornelia  and  Jim  became  engaged.  There  was  a  hard, 
silent  grudge  against  Jim  in  my  heart  from  the  day  I  first 
suspected  that  it  was  he  who  had  stood  between  Cornelia 


0.^6  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

and  me,  and  their  engagement  increased  the  grudge  to 
hate. 

"  We  had,  before  this,  put  the  whole  of  our  inheritance 
into  mining  fields  in  what  was  then  the  far  West,  buying 
up  a  large  tract  of  land,  divided  equally  between  us.  The 
year  after  my  marriage  we  moved  West  for  a  time,  and  I 
started  out  on  a  prospecting  tour  of  our  land ;  Jim  to  follow 
me  when  he  had  finished  establishing  a  kind  of  business 
office  in  pioneer  quarters,  in  a  small  town  as  near  the  base 
of  our  operations  as  was  feasible.  My  wife  remained  in 
this  town. 

"  On  horseback,  with  two  engineers  and  a  copper 
expert  and  an  Indian  guide,  I  rode  through  our  pos- 
sessions. Miners  were  already  at  work,  and  had  pur- 
sued the  lead  far  enough  to  prove  pretty  distinctly  that, 
while  Jim's  part  of  the  tract  was  likely  to  be  fairly  pro- 
ductive, the  vein  stopped  short  of  mine,  which  was  thus 
practically  worthless. 

"  I  rode  back  to  our  camp  in  a  black  mood.  Jim,  it 
seemed,  was  to  succeed  in  everything;  all  that  he  sought 
was  his,  and  for  me  there  was  nothing  but  failure  and 
defeat.  All  the  way  back  I  brooded  bitterly  on  the 
contrast  between  us,  until  I  was  in  a  still  frenzy  of 
jealousy  when  I  reached  the  camp.  The  contrast 
between  Cornelia,  for  whom  I  still  had  a  wild,  hope- 
less passion,  and  my  wife,  sickly,  dull,  indeed  disagree- 
able to  me  already,  was  maddening,  and  had  been 
sufficiently  so  before.  But  now,  when  I  thought  of 
Jim,  with  Cornelia  for  his  wife  and  the  certain  prospect 
of  large  wealth  to  add  to  his  elation,  while  I  was  without 
a  penny  or  a  prospect  of  any  sort,  the  rage  and  fury  in 
my  mind  became  almost  intoxicating. 

"  We  had  encountered   hostile  Indians  on  the  trail  as 


Night  237 

we  returned,  but  our  bold,  dare-devil  dash  through  this 
danger  made  slight  impression  on  me.  I  think  death 
would  have  been  welcome  to  me  that  night.  God 
knows  I  wish  I  had  met  it  then.  My  heart  was  evil 
enough,  but  at  least  it  had  not  the  guilt  that  came  later. 

"  I  suppose,  Mr.  Gregory,  that  I  am  answerable  for 
my  brother's  death  —  not  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  but 
before  God.  And  yet  —  if  you  could  tell  me  that  I 
am  mistaken,  that  I  exaggerate,  that  other  men  would 
have  done  the  same  and  held  themselves  guiltless  —  if 
that  could  be  —  "  Ingraham  broke  off  and  fixed  his  eyes 
on  Gregory's  face  once  more,  as  if  in  appeal  for  his  life. 

"  Please  go  on,"  was  Gregory's  response,  but  the 
words  were  gently  spoken,  as  the  words  of  a  physician 
when  he  is  diagnosing  a  manifestly  mortal  disease. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Ingraham,  harshly.  "  Jim  was  at 
the  camp,  and  was  boy  enough  to  parade  a  letter  from 
Cornelia  before  me.  We  quarrelled  fiercely,  about  what 
I  cannot  remember,  but  I  could  not  restrain  the  storm 
of  rage  and  jealousy  in  me.  It  had  to  break  loose  some- 
where. I  refused  to  tell  Jim  what  I  had  discovered 
regarding  the  lead,  and  he  declared  he  would  go  and  find 
out  for  himself.  I  said  he  would  be  a  fool  if  he  did, 
but  gave  him  no  hint  of  the  fact  that  there  were  hostile 
Indians  on  the  way.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  condi- 
tions, nor  the  character  of  the  people  about  us,  having 
never  been  in  the  country  before.  It  was  early  in  the 
morning.  We  had  ridden  all  night,  and  the  men  had 
gone  to  their  tents  and  were  sleeping  off  the  effects  of 
our  struggle.  I  told  Jim  he  could  not  get  a  guide.  He 
merely  whistled  in  a  light-hearted,  careless  way  he  had, 
and  started  off  to  a  neighbouring  camp,  in  search,  as  I 
inferred,  of  some  escort.     I  saw  him  no  more,  and  made 


238  A  Woman   of  Yesterday- 

no  attempt  to  govern  his  actions,  and  did  not  even  know 
whether  he  had  started.  Who  and  what  the  guide  was 
whom  he  obtained,  I  learned  later. 

"  I  slept  most  of  that  day,  after  Jim  disappeared,  ex- 
hausted in  body  and  mind,  and  continued  to  sleep  far 
into  the  night,  keeping  my  tent  door  securely  closed,  as 
I  wished  to  see  and  speak  to  no  one.  It  was,  perhaps, 
three  o'clock  of  the  morning  following  when  I  was 
roused  by  a  strange  noise  at  my  tent  door.  Starting  up 
from  my  bed  on  the  ground,  I  saw  that  some  one  had 
cut  open  the  fastenings,  and  that  the  flap  was  drawn 
back.  In  the  opening  thus  formed  stood  the  shape 
of  an  Indian  rider  on  horseback,  perfectly  motionless. 
The  moonlight,  which  was  unusually  brilliant,  fell  full 
upon  the  face  of  this  man,  and  I  recognized  him  at 
once,  with  a  horrible  chill  of  foreboding,  as  a  half-witted 
Indian  who  sometimes  acted  as  guide,  but  only  to  those 
who  knew  no  better  than  to  accept  his  services,  which 
were  worthless  and  treacherous.  He  was  a  half-breed, 
an  odious,  repulsive  being,  with  only  wit  enough  to  be 
malicious,  and  of  abnormal  treachery  and  cruelty  even 
for  his  kind.  Never  can  I  forget  that  face  of  his  in  the 
moonlight.  He  spoke  not  one  word,  but  simply  sat 
his  horse  and  looked  at  me  with  his  narrow,  gleaming 
eves,  a  malignant  grin  making  his  ugliness  fairly  fiend- 
ish. If  you  want  to  get  a  faint  idea  of  his  look,  recall 
the  face  of  Oliver — my  son;"  Ingraham's  voice  sunk 
to  a  whisper,  and  he  added,  "I  can  never  escape  it." 

Gregory's  brows  knit  heavily,  and  his  face  reflected 
something  of  the  tortured  misery  of  the  man  before 
him. 

"  It  was  not,"  said  Ingraham,  "  until  I  had  staggered 
to  my   feet   that   I   saw  that  across  his   saddle-bow   this 


Night  239 

creature  carried  a  dead  body — Jim.  There  was  an 
Indian   arrow   in  his  side." 

"No  matter,  no  matter  for  the  rest;  I  understand," 
said  Gregory,  hastily. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  Ingraham, 
with  a  strong  effort,  rallied  himself  to  conclude  his  story. 

"  I  was  Jim's  heir."  These  words  were  spoken  with 
hard  and  scornful  emphasis.  "  That  was  a  feature  of 
the  case  which  presents  complications  to  a  man  in  form- 
ing a  judgment.  Perhaps  you  will  believe  me  when  I 
say  that  this  issue  had  not  entered  my  mind  in  letting 
the  boy  go  to  his  death.  Indeed,  the  whole  series  of 
events  was  without  deliberation,  but  under  the  influence 
of  blind,  sullen  anger." 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  Gregory. 

"  All  the  same,  I  profited  by  his  death.  The  mines 
proved  immensely  valuable,  and  are  even  to-day.  They 
have  made  me  rich  —  and  incomparably  wretched.  A 
word  or  two  more,  and  you  will  know  the  whole  story. 
Jim  was  brought  home,  here,  for  burial,  my  wife  and  I 
returning  with  his  body.  All  through  that  journey,  and 
continually,  for  many  months,  I  saw  before  me,  waking 
or  sleeping,  that  face  of  cruelty  incarnate,  the  half-witted 
Indian  guide,  as  I  had  seen  him  on  that  awful  night. 
That  face  was  my  Nemesis.      It  is  still. 

"Within  the  year  my  wife  gave  birth  to  a  son, 
Oliver,  —  a  strange  perversion,  made  up  of  moral  obliq- 
uity, mental  distortion,  and  physical  deformity,  like  an 
embodiment  of  sin.  On  his  face  was  stamped  by  some 
strange  trick  of  nature  the  image  which  had  haunted 
me  —  as  if  the  Fates,  or  the  Fiends,  or  God  himself,  had 
feared  I  might  forget,  and  know  a  day  of  respite. 

"  My  wife  died  when  Oliver  was  a  few  months  old,  — 


240  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

died  of  cold,  I  believe,  the  chill  of  our  loveless  marriage. 
Two  years  later  Cornelia  and  I  were  married.  I 
believe  she  has  been  happy.  I  have  been  prospered, 
and  have  risen  to  a  position  of  some  influence,  and  we 
have  all  that  could  be  desired  in  our  home,  in  our  three 
daughters.  But  when,  to-night,  I  heard  you  pronounce 
the  judgments  of  God  on  men  who  had  built  up  pros- 
perity upon  a  lie,  I  was  like  a  man  struck  in  his  very 
heart.  I  felt  that  I  could  no  longer  endure  my  hidden 
load,  and  must  confess  to  one  human  being  my  past,  and 
make  restitution,  if  by  any  means  it  is  yet  possible. 
The  Romish  Church  is  merciful,  when  it  provides  the 
possibility  of  confession  to  sinful  men. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  me  ?  Have  you  healing 
for  such  a  sore  as  mine  ?  " 

With  these  abrupt  words  Ingraham  threw  himself 
into  a  leather-covered  arm-chair  with  the  action  of  com- 
plete exhaustion.  His  aspect  was  changed  from  that  of 
the  alert,  confident  man  of  the  world  and  of  affairs,  to 
that  of  a  broken  down  and  shattered  age. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

Sin  is  not  a  monster  to  be  mused  on,  but  an  impotence  to  be  got  rid  of. 

—  Matthew  Arnold. 

Use  sin  as  it  will  use  you  ;  spare  it  not,  for  it  will  not  spare  you  ;  it  is  your 
murderer  and  the  murderer  of  the  world  :  use  it,  therefore,  as  a  murderer  should 
be  used.  Kill  it  before  it  kills  you  ;  and  though  it  kill  your  bodies,  it  shall  not 
be  able  to  kill  your  souls  :  and  though  it  bring  you  to  the  grave,  as  it  did  your 
Head,  it  shall  not  be  able  to  keep  you  there.  —  Baxter. 

John  Gregory  met  the  demand  thus  made  upon  him 
with  all  the  moral  and  spiritual  resources  of  which  he 
was  master,  for  all  were  needed.  The  full  strength  of 
the  man's  personality  was  brought  into  action,  the  lofty 
severity,  the  unflinching  hate  of  sin,  and  yet  the  clear 
vision  which  could  see  beyond  the  torture  and  taint  of  it, 
and  sound  the  depth  of  a  nature  which  thus  agonized  for 
redemption  and  for  righteousness. 

"  The  only  sin,"  he  said,  in  the  words  of  another, 
"  which  is  unforgiven  is  the  sin  which  is  unrepented  of. 
That  early  yielding  to  a  paroxysm  of  jealousy  and  rage 
had  a  fearful,  and  yet  it  may  even  be  a  merciful,  result. 
There  are  those  who  have  given  way  to  worse,  and,  no 
result  following,  have  lived  on  in  hardness  of  heart  and 
contempt  of  God's  law.  Christ's  inflexible  law,  far 
more  rigorous  than  the  old  law  of  Moses,  says  he  that 
hateth  his  brother  is  a  murderer.  Murder,  then,  is  the 
commonest  of  social  sins,  rather  than  the  rarest.  Christ 
also  says  that  it  was  for  sinners  that  he  came  to  die,  not 
for  the  righteous.  His  love  overflows  all  our  sin,  and 
finds  no  halt  at  the  degrees  of  guilt  which  men  empha- 
R  241 


242  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

size  in  their  shallow  judgment.  Men  judge  by  conse- 
quences, by  outward  events  ;   God  looks  upon  the  heart. 

"  Looking  upon  the  heart,  as  far  as  we  may,  with 
God,  I  say  then,  you  have  been  guilty  of  murder,  but  so 
have  other  men.  Many  a  man  has  cherished  a  spirit  of 
bitter  revenge  and  hatred  against  one  who  had  injured 
him,  who  has  not  suffered  what  you  have,  not  having 
caused  or  profited  by  the  death  of  that  person,  directly 
or  indirectly  ;  but  before  God  you  are  perhaps  equally 
guilty. 

"  I  do  not  count  your  sin  slight.  I  would  not  seek  to 
make  it  small  in  your  own  eyes,  but  I  believe  that  you 
are  released  from  the  guilt  and  burden  borne  so  long,  and 
should  no  longer  stagger  under  it.  Has  not  Almighty 
God  given  to  his  servants  power  and  commandment  to 
declare  to  those  who  are  penitent  the  absolution  and 
remission  of  their  sins  ? 

"  What  did  our  Lord  say  to  the  leper  who  sought  his 
cleansing  ?  '  I  will,  be  thou  clean.'  Even  this  he  says 
to  you.  Throw  off  that  old  yoke  of  bondage.  It  is 
your  right.  Go  free  in  the  liberty  of  the  sons  of  God, 
but  go  to  sin  no  more." 

These  words,  spoken  with  the  authority  of  a  priest, 
and  with  the  solemnity  of  absolute  conviction,  brought 
something  of  light  and  release  to  the  troubled  heart  of 
Ingraham. 

The  hour  was  late,  indeed,  morning  was  at  hand, 
when,  lifting  his  face  upon  which  a  certain  calmness  had 
settled,  he  said  to  Gregory,  earnestly  :  — 

"  I  believe  I  grasp  the  truth  of  what  you  say,  and 
that  there  is  for  me  a  certain  peace,  a  partial  release, 
although  forgetfulness  never.  But  this  is  not  enough ; 
the  cry  of  my  whole  soul  is  to  make  restitution  in  some 


Night  243 

sort,  somewhere,  although  how  and  to  whom  I  cannot 
see.       I   still    have   the   stain   that   I    profit   by   my  sin. 
What  can  you  tell  me  ?      Do  you  see  a  way  for  me  ?  " 
John    Gregory    looked    at    Ingraham    steadily    for    a 

moment  before  speaking,  and  then  said  very  slowly  : 

"  Do  you  remember  what  the  Master  said  to  a  certain 
ruler,  'Sell  all  that  thou  hast,  and  distribute  unto  the 
poor,  and  come,  follow  me '  ?  If  you  are  in  earnest,  Mr. 
Ingraham,  and  if  you  feel  that,  as  your  experience  of  sin 
has  been, in  no  light  and  common  form,  but  in  a  depth 
of  agony  which  few  men  ever  know,  so  your  repentance 
should  be  along  no  mild  and  easy  lines,  but  should  reach 
to  the  foundations  of  your  life  —  if,  I  say,  you  see  things 
thus,  and  can  bear  so  strong  a  prescription,  I  should  re- 
peat to  you  literally  what  Christ  said  to  the  rich  ruler. 
It  is  a  hard  saying ;   not  every  man  can  receive  it." 

The  two  men  faced  each  other  in  silence  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  Gregory  saw  the  leap  of  a  sudden  question  in 
the  other's  eyes. 

"  No,"  he  said  sternly,  as  if  in  answer  to  a  spoken 
inquiry,  «  I  am  not  advising  you  with  an  eye  on  my 
own  advantage.  My  thought  was  not  of  my  own  cause, 
but  of  the  cause  of  humanity  anywhere.  Pardon  me  if 
I  speak  plainly;  I  could  not  use  a  farthing  of  your 
money,  were  it  all  at  my  disposal,  for  building  up  the 
work  I  am  seeking  to  establish  in  Fraternia.  Recall 
what  you  heard  me  say  to-night  of  the  true  Kingdom 
of  God.  I  could  not  use  your  money,  Mr.  Ingraham, 
in  seeking  to  show  forth  that  kingdom  ;  but  I  could  use 
you,  should  you  wish  to  come  with  us,  if  you  came 
empty-handed." 

The  lawyer  felt  the  pitiless  severity  of  Gregory's 
moral  standard  and  all   that  this  dictum  implied,  but  he 


244  A   Woman  of  Yesterday 

did  not  resist  it.  His  humiliation  and  submission  were 
sincere,  and,  for  the  time  at  least,  controlling  ;  but  doubt 
and  conflict  were  plainly  read  in  his  face. 

"  Is  it  a  hard  saying  ?  "  John  Gregory  asked,  with  a 
slight  smile. 

"Yes,  harder  than  you  know.  I  could  do  what  you 
say,  were  I  alone  to  be  considered ;  but  to  reduce  my 
family  to  beggary,  to  cut  short  my  career  and  stain  my 
reputation  by  the  cloud  which  would  inevitably  rest 
upon  it  in  the  community  by  such  an  unheard-of  course 
of  action,  to  take  my  wife  and  daughters  from  their 
social  world  to  follow  me,  sent  like  a  scapegoat  into 
some  wilderness  —  really,  Mr.  Gregory,  what  you  name 
is  beyond  reason  !  " 

Gregory  made  absolutely  no  response.  After  a  long 
silence,  Ingraham  said  thoughtfully  :  — 

"This  is  about  the  way  I  see  for  myself:  from  this 
time  on  I  shall  seek  to  live  a  humbler  and  a  sincerely 
Christian  life,  and  shall  strive  in  every  way  open  to  me 
to  aid  and  further  the  cause  of  righteousness,  with  my 
money  and  with  my  influence.  In  this  way  I  shall 
bring  happiness  and  satisfaction  to  my  wife,  to  whom 
I  owe  the  highest  obligation,  next  to  God,  instead  of 
destroying  her  comfort  by  dragging  her  with  me  into 
some  late  missionary  endeavour  or  eccentric  experiment. 
Pardon   me,  Mr.  Gregory,  if  I  too  speak  plainly. 

"  But  this  is  not  all.  Although  I  feel  no  individual 
call  in  the  direction  of  your  cooperative  colony,  and  am 
not  over  sanguine  of  its  success,  I  do  believe  profoundly 
in  you,  personally,  as  I  must  have  shown  you.  Now  I 
want  you  to  reconsider  what  you  said  a  little  while  ago. 
Frankly,  this  discriminating  between  money  made  in 
one  way  or  another  savours  to  me  of  superstition.     This 


Night  245 

money,  which  is  mine,  cannot  be  destroyed ;  even  you 
would  hardly  advise  that.  Why  not  put  it  to  a  good  use, 
the  best  possible  from  your  point  of  view  ?  I  have  never 
given  away  money  largely,  but  I  am  able  to,  and  I  want 
to  seal  our  interview  to-night  with  a  substantial  gift." 

As  he  spoke,  Ingraham  turned  to  his  desk  and 
touched  a  check-book  which  lay  upon   it. 

"  Mr.  Gregory,  I  want  to  write  my  check  for  fifty 
thousand  dollars  to  be  placed  unconditionally  in  your 
hands.  You  want  a  little  church  down  there  in  your 
settlement,  and  you  want  it  beautiful,  worthy  of  its 
purpose;  you  want  a  library  —  both  are  necessary  to 
carry  on  the  kind  of  work  you  project.  Here  they  are," 
and  again  he  touched  the  little  leather  book  with  his 
forefinger ;  "  let  me  do  that  much  as  a  memorial  of  this 
night  and  what  you  have  done  for  me." 

John  Gregory  met  the  look  of  sincere  and  even 
anxious  appeal  with  which  these  words  were  spoken 
with   unyielding,  although   not  unkindly,  firmness. 

"  This  is  a  generous  impulse  on  your  part,  Mr.  Ingra- 
ham. Do  not  for  a  moment  think  I  fail  to  appreciate 
it.  You  are  right ;  the  money  must  be  used,  and  will 
be,  I  hope,  promptly  and  wisely.  You  must  pardon  me 
a  certain  over  nicety  perhaps  in  preferring  not  to  build 
my  church  in  Fraternia,  or  even  my  library,  with  it. 
You  will  find  plenty  of  men  less  fastidious,  and  no  one 
but  myself  will,  I  suppose,  have  reason  to  entertain  such 
scruples." 

Gregory  had  risen,  and  was  ready  now  to  go.  It  was 
four  o'clock,  he  found,  by  his  watch,  and  it  had  been  a 
long  vigil ;  but,  while  Ingraham's  face  was  haggard  and 
even  ghastly,  that  of  Gregory  was  unchanged  in  its  mas- 
sive firmness  and  its  strong,  fine  lines. 


246  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

Ingraham  stood  at  his  desk  plainly  chagrined  and  ill 
at  ease. 

"  In  your  eyes,  I  see,"  he  said  ruefully,  "  I  am  still 
in  the  place  of  the  man  who  went  away  sorrowful  be- 
cause he  had  great  possessions." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Gregory  ;  "  it  is  too  soon  to  tell." 

"Every  man  must  judge  for  himself,  Mr.  Gregory, 
when  it  comes  to  the  supreme  acts  of  his  life." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other,  sadly  ;  "  to  the  supreme  acts 
or  to  the  supreme  compromises.  Will  you  excuse  me 
now  ?  I  believe  that  I  must  go."  Gregory  held  out 
his  hand,  which  Ingraham  grasped  with  eagerness. 
"You  have  honoured  me  by  your  confidence  and  your 
generosity.  Count  me  your  friend  if  you  will.  Good 
night." 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

I  tire  of  shams,  I  rush  to  be. —  Emerson. 

Gertrude  Ingraham  was  still  unmarried,  still 
pretty,  still  charming  in   her  dainty,  high-bred  way. 

Perhaps  the  thought  crossed  Keith  Burgess's  mind 
as  he  joined  her  in  her  father's  library  that  even- 
ing, after  their  return  from  Gregory's  lecture,  that  she 
would  have  been,  as  a  wife,  a  shade  less  exigeante  than 
Anna. 

Anna,  shrinking  from  the  small  coin  of  discussion  of 
so  great  themes,  had  gone  directly  to  their  room,  —  the 
room  which  had  been  Keith's  on  his  first  visit  to  Bur- 
lington. Keith  remained  in  the  library  to  accept  the 
refreshment  which  Gertrude  had  prepared  for  their  re- 
turn, and  found  the  situation  altogether  pleasing.  It 
was  a  rest  to  a  sensitive,  nervous  man  like  himself  to 
sit  down  with  a  pretty  woman  who  had  no  startling 
theories  of  life  and  conduct ;  one  who  had  always 
moved,  and  who  would  always  choose  to  move,  on  the 
comfortable  lines  of  convention,  instead  of  seeking  some 
other  path  for  herself,  rough  and  lonely. 

Perhaps  Keith  lingered  all  the  more  willingly  to-night 
because  he  perceived  a  rough  and  lonely  path  opening 
visibly  before  him,  into  which  he  must  in  all  probability 
turn  full  soon. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  Mr.  Gregory  ?  "  asked 
Gertrude   Ingraham  over  her  tea-cups. 

"  He  is  a  tremendous  speaker,"  said  Keith,  soberly  ; 
247 


248  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  I  never  heard  a  man  who  could  mould  an  audience  to 
his  will  as  he  does.      You  were  not  there  to-night." 

"  No,  but  I  heard  him  before  you  and  Mrs.  Burgess 
came,  night  before  last.  I  think  he  has  the  finest  phy- 
sique of  any  orator  I  ever  heard.  Don't  you  think  that  is 
one  source  of  his  power  ?  There  is  something  absolutely 
majestic  about  him  when  he  is  speaking.  He  seems  to 
overpower  you  —  you  must  agree  with  him,  whether  you 
do  or  not." 

"  Then  do  you  accept  this  new  doctrine  of  his,  Miss 
Ingraham  ?  " 

"  You  mean  that  there  should  be  no  social  distinctions, 
no  aristocratic  and  privileged  class,  no  wealth  and  no 
poverty,  and  all  that  ?  I  do  not  know  what  he  said 
to-night,  you  see,  but  that  is  the  line  on  which  he  has 
been  speaking." 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  it  all  comes  to." 

"  Why,  no,  of  course  I  don't  believe  in  it,  when  I  get 
away  from  Mr.  Gregory,"  said  Gertrude,  laughing  prettily ; 
"because  I  really  think  he  is  going  against  the  funda- 
mental laws  of  God.  There  have  always  been  rich 
people  and  poor  people,  and  it  was  intended  that  there 
always  should  be,  I  think." 

41  It  does  seem  absolutely  impracticable  to  carry  out 
any  such  theory  in  actual  life.  Certainly  it  would  be 
under  existing  conditions.  It  can  only  be  done  by 
radical,  by  revolutionary  methods.  Have  you  heard 
what  Mr.  Gregory  is  actually  doing  to  illustrate  his 
theory  ?      Have  you   heard  of  Fraternia  ?  " 

Gertrude  Ingraham  lifted  her  chin  with  a  roguish  little 
movement  and  nodded  with  a  charming  smile. 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard  of  Fraternia  too  !  Isn't  it  droll  ? 
That  is  why  I  didn't  go  to-night,  you  see.      I  was  afraid 


Night  249 

Mr.  Gregory  would  get  hold  of  me  with  that  irresistible 
power  of  his,  and  then  I  should  have  to  go  and  work  in 
a  cotton  mill !  "  and  with  this  Gertrude  lifted  her  eye- 
brows with  an  expression  of  plaintive  self-pity  which 
Keith  found  very  taking.  "  I'm  afraid  I  shouldn't  like 
it,"  she  added  archly  ;  "  it  would  be  so  new,  and  one's 
hands  would  get  so  horrid  !  " 

They  laughed  together,  Keith  naturally  noting  the 
delicacy  of  the  small  white  hands  which  were  manipu- 
lating the  transparent  china  on  the  low  table  between 
them.  Then  Mrs.  Ingraham  and  others  coming  into 
the  room  after  them,  Keith  rose  with  graceful  courtesy 
to  serve  them  and  to  draw  them  into  the  conversation. 
But  all  the  while  Keith  had  a  sense  that  he  was 
turning  against  himself  the  sharpest  weapons  which 
could  have  been  found,  nothing  being  so  instinctively 
dreaded  by  him  as  to  put  himself  in  an  absurd  situation, 
to  awaken  ridicule,  even  his  own. 

Just  below  the  surface  of  his  thought  there  lay  two 
formidable  facts,  like  sunk,  threatening  rocks  seen  darkly 
under  smooth  water.  He  knew  that  Anna  would  propose 
to  him  that  they  should  throw  themselves  into  Gregory's 
enterprise,  and  become  disciples  of  the  new  school ; 
and  he  knew  that  having  cut  off  hitherto,  involuntarily  or 
otherwise,  each  deepest  desire  of  her  soul  for  the  service 
of  others,  he  should  not  dare  to  thwart  her  in  this.  If 
she  wished  to  do  this  thing,  he  must  join  her  in  it. 

Keith  had  himself  been  deeply  moved  by  Gregory. 
The  old  passion  for  sacrifice  and  self-devotion  had  stirred 
again  within  him.  He  felt  the  high  courage,  the  gener- 
osity, the  strong  initiative  of  Gregory  ;  he  was  thrilled 
at  the  sight  of  a  man  who  could  throw  himself  unre- 
servedly into  a  difficult  and   dangerous  crusade,  simply 


250  A   Woman  of  Yesterday 

for  an  ideal,  with  all  to  lose  and  nothing  to  gain.  He 
too  had  once  marched  to  that  same  music  ;  his  blood  was 
stirred,  and  he  felt  something  of  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
student  years,  rising  warm  within  him.  He  perfectly 
understood  the  motions  of  Anna's  spirit,  and  shared  in 
them,  up  to  a  certain  point.  This  point  was  reached 
when  he  touched  the  limit  set  by  his  inborn  and  inherited 
conservatism,  his  constitutional  preference  for  things  as 
they  were,  and  his  quick  dread  of  making  himself  absurd. 
And  now,  Gertrude  Ingraham  with  her  pretty  mocking  had 
suddenly  put  the  whole  thing  before  him  in  the  light  he 
dreaded  most. 

Anna  was  not  thus  divided  in  her  mind,  and  could  not 
have  been.  Something  of  the  steadfast  simplicity  of  her 
ancient  German  ancestry  preserved  her  from  this  charac- 
teristically American  form  of  sensitiveness.  She  could 
have  adopted  without  hesitation,  any  outward  forms, 
however  out  of  conformity  to  usage,  however  grotesque 
in  the  eyes  of  others,  if  she  had  felt  the  inward  call. 
Gregory's  stern  and  lofty  utterances  had  come  to  her 
with  full  prophetic  weight,  and  had  left  nothing  in  her 
to  rise  up  in  doubt  or  gainsaying. 

In  this  mood  Keith  found  her.  She  was  standing, 
still  fully  dressed,  before  the  chimney-piece,  where  he 
had  sat  one  night  and  dreamed  at  once  of  her  and  Ger- 
trude Ingraham.  Her  hands  were  clasped  and  hanging 
before  her ;  her  face  was  slightly  pale,  and  her  eyes 
strangely  large  and  luminous.  Standing  before  her, 
Keith  took  her  clasped  hands  between  his,  and  looked 
at  her  with  a  questioning  smile. 

«  Well,  dear,"  he  said,  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  You  know,"  she  answered  softly.  "  Was  it  not  to 
you  what  it  was  to  me  ?      Is  it  not  the  very  chance  we 


Night  251 

wish,  to  redeem  our  poor  lost  hopes  of  service  ?  —  to 
leave  all  the  luxuries  and  privileges  and  advantages, 
and  share  the  world's  sorrows  ?  to  become  poor  and 
humble  as  our  Master  was  ?  to  give  what  we  have 
received  ?  Oh,  Keith,  is  it  to  be,  or  must  another  hope 
go  by  ?  " 

As  Anna  thus  cried  out,  the  solemn  appeal  of  her 
nature,  austere,  and  yet  full-charged  with  noble  passion, 
breaking  at  last  through  the  barriers  which  had  long 
held  it  back,  gave  her  an  extraordinary  spiritual  grandeur. 
There  was  something  of  awe  in  the  look  with  which 
her  husband  regarded  her.  Weapons  of  fear  and  doubt 
and  cavil  fell  before  that  celestial  sternness  in  her  eyes, 
—  a  look  we  see  sometimes  in  the  innocent  eyes  of 
young  children. 

"  It  is  to  be,  Anna.  You  shall  have  your  way  this 
time,  my  wife." 

The  words  were  spoken  reverently,  with  grave  gentle- 
ness, and  Keith's  own  sweet  courtesy.  Was  it  Anna's 
fault  that  she  failed,  in  the  exaltation  of  her  mood,  to 
catch  the  sadness   in   them  ? 

Keith  was  hardly  conscious  of  it  himself.  He  was 
thinking,  on  an  unspoken  parallel,  that  he  would  rather 
be  privileged  to  adore  Anna  Mallison  in  a  moment  like 
this,  even  though  she  led  him  in  a  rough  and  lonely 
path,  than  to  dally  with  another  woman  in  smoothness 
and  ease. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

I  took  the  power  in  my  hand 
And  went  against  the  world  ; 
'Twas  not  so  much  as  David  had, 
But  I  was  twice  as  bold. 

I  aimed  my  pebble,  but  myself 
Was  all  the  one  that  fell. 
Was  it  Goliath  was  too  large, 
Or  only  I  too  small  ? 

—  Emily  Dickinson. 

We  all  have  need  of  that  prayer  of  the  Breton  mariner,  ' '  Save  us,  O  God  ! 
Thine  ocean  is  so  large  and  our  little  boats  are  so  small."  — Farrar. 

"Trunks  checked  for  Utopia!  Direct  passenger 
route  without  change  of  cars  !  Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze 
me!" 

Thus  Professor  Ward,  with  a  sardonic  and  yet  dis- 
comfited smile,  standing  in  the  studio  of  his  friend 
Pierce  Everett,  in  Fulham.  The  room  was  in  the  dis- 
order of  a  radical  breaking  up  ;  packing  boxes  standing 
about  and  litter  strewn  everywhere. 

Everett  in  his  shirt  sleeves  was  piling  on  a  table  a 
mass  of  draperies  which  he  had  taken  from  the  wall. 
He  was  covered  with  dust,  but  his  face  was  full  of 
joyous  excitement. 

"  Yes,  my  good  friend  —  straight  for  Utopia  now  ! 

"'Get  on  board,  chil'en, 
Get  on  board,  chil'en, 
For  there's  room  for  many  a  more.'  " 
252 


Night  253 

Everett  trolled  out  the  old  negro  chorus  with  hilari- 
ous enjoyment. 

"^»w  Deus  vult  perdere  —  "  began  Ward,  grimly. 
"  Oh,  we're  all  mad,  you  know.  We  are  simply  not 
so  mad  as  the  rest  of  you,"  interrupted  Everett,  gayly. 
"  We  have  intervals  of  sanity,  and  are  taking  advantage 
of  one  of  them  to  get  out  of  the  mad-house,  leavino- 
you  other   fellows   to   keep    up   your   unprofitable  strife 

with  phantoms  by  yourselves,  while  we  actually yes, 

we  even  dare  to  believe  it  —  live.  Think  of  that, 
Ward,  if  you  have  the  imagination  !  "  Ward  shook  his 
head.  "  No,  you  haven't ;  that  is  so.  If  you  had,  you 
could  not  have  listened  to  Gregory  unmoved." 

"  Confound  Gregory,"  muttered  Ward.  «  What  did 
you  ever  get  the  man  here  for,  turning  our  world  up- 
side down  !  " 

"  That  has  been  the  occupation  of  seers  and  prophets 
from  the  beginning,  I  believe,"  retorted  Everett,  care- 
lessly. 

"  Seers  and  prophets  !  "  cried  Ward,  angrily,  « that  is 
what  I  can  stand  least  of  all.  This  posing  as  a  kind 
of  nineteenth  century  John  the  Baptist  strikes  me  as 
exquisitely  ridiculous." 

Everett's  eyes  flashed  dangerously,  but  he  made  no 
rejoinder. 

"I  saw  your  John  the  Baptist  this  morning  in  the 
Central  Station  buying  his  railway  ticket  and  mornino- 
paper  like  any  other  average  man.  The  locusts  and 
wild  hcney  were  not  in  evidence." 

"  No,  he  doesn't  take  nourishment  habitually  in  rail- 
way stations,"  put  in  Everett,  coolly. 

"  I  didn't  see  any  leathern  girdle  about  his  loins, 
either,  although  of  course  he  may  wear  it  next  the  skin 


1 54  A  Woman   of  Yesterday 

for  penitential  purposes.  His  clothing  appeared  to  be  a 
species  of  camel's  hair —  " 

"  Falsely  so  called,"  put  in  Everett ;  "  it  is  really 
English   tweed.      Very  good  quality." 

"  Yes,  I'll  venture  to  say  that  is  true.  Your  prophet 
of  the  wilderness  strikes  me  as  knowing  a  good  thing 
when  he  sees  it.  Plague  take  the  fellow !  He  has 
just  that  sort  of  brute  force  and  sheer  overbearing  per- 
sonal dominance,  which  you  idealists  and  credulous  take 
for  spiritual  authority." 

"  Come  now,  Ward,  we  may  as  well  keep  our  tempers 
and  treat  this  matter  decently.  Nothing  is  gained  by 
calling  names.  You  are  naturally  prejudiced  against  a 
man  who  attacks  the  existing  social  order,  and  suggests 
that  even  the  rulers  of  the  synagogue  and  the  great 
teachers  of  the  schools  have  something  yet  to  learn. 
Gregory  is  radical,  revolutionary  perhaps,  but  not  a 
whit  more  so  than  the  New  Testament  makes  him.  He 
is  an  absolutely  conscientious  man ;  he  has  given  up 
every  personal  ambition,  wealth,  position,  all  that  most 
men  cling  to  — " 

"  In  order  to  become  a  Dictator,  in  a  field  where 
there  is  very  little  competition." 

Everett  suppressed  the  irritation  which  this  interposi- 
tion aroused,  and  continued  in  a  lighter  tone, — 

"  You  are  enough  of  a  dictator  yourself  to  see  this 
point,  which  had  escaped  the  rest  of  us.  I  can  see  that 
it  is  a  little  bitter  to  you  to  have  Mrs.  Burgess  seeking 
another  spiritual  and  intellectual  adviser,  —  going  after 
other  gods,  as  it  were." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ward,  gravely  ;  "  it  makes  me  sick  at 
heart  to  see  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Burgess,  with  all  that 
glorious  power  of  self-devotion  of  hers,  throwing  herself 


Night  255 

blindly  into  this  wild,  Quixotic  experiment  —  sure  to 
end  in  disappointment  and  defeat.  It  is  mournful, 
most  mournful,"  and  Ward  shook  his  head  in  melan- 
choly fashion.  "  And  when  it  comes  to  Keith,"  he 
resumed,  "  alas  !  our  brother  !  Poor  Keith,  with  his  life- 
long habits  of  luxurious  ease,  his  conventional  views 
of  duty,  his  yardstick  imagination,  and  his  wretched 
health  —  to  think  of  such  a  man  being  torn  from  all 
the  amenities  of  a  refined  Christian  home,  and  carted 
across  lots,  Government  bonds  and  all,  to  be  set  down 
in  some  malarial  swamp  to  dig  ditches  with  a  set  of 
ploughmen,  to  prove,  forsooth  !  that  all  men  are  created 
free  and  equal,"  and  Ward  groaned  and  bent  his  head 
as  if  overcome  by  the  picture  he  had  called  up. 

Lifting  his  head  suddenly,  he  added  in  a  tone  of  pensive 
rumination. 

"  He  is  one  of  those  men  Thoreau  tells  of,  who  would 
not  go  a-huckleberrying  without  a  medicine  chest ;  and 
he  would  perish,  I  am  convinced,  if  deprived  of  improved 
sanitary  plumbing." 

"  All  very  clever,"  said  Everett,  "  but  I  will  take  the 
liberty  of  mentioning  the  fact  that  the  Burgess's  physi- 
cian hails  the  North  Carolina  project  as  the  very  best 
thing  which  could  happen  for  Keith's  health." 

Hardly  had  he  finished  the  sentence  when  a  light 
knock  was  heard  on  the  half-open  door  of  the  studio, 
and  Anna  Burgess,  at  Everett's  word,  stepped  into  the 
room. 

She  wore  a  thin  black  gown,  for  the  day  was  warm, 
and  a  broad-brimmed  hat  of  some  transparent  black  sub- 
stance threw  the  fine  shape  of  her  head  and  the  pure 
tints  of  her  face  into  striking  relief.  A  handful  of  white 
jonquils  was  fastened  into  the  front  of  her  gown,  and 


256  A  Woman   of  Yesterday 

the  freshness  of  the  June  day  seemed  to  enter  the  dusty, 
despoiled  studio  with  her. 

Both  men  stood  at  gaze  before  her  with  deference  and 
admiration  in  every  line  and  look.  With  a  delicate  flush 
rising  in  her  cheeks,  Anna  gave  her  hand  to  each,  and 
spoke  a  word  of  greeting  in  which  her  natural  shyness 
and  her  acquired  social  grace  were  mingled  to  a  manner 
of  peculiar  charm. 

"  I  ran  up  to  hand  you  these  papers  for  Mr.  Gregory," 
she  said  to  Everett,  a  vibration  of  suppressed  joy  in  her 
full,  low  voice  which  he  had  never  heard  before.  "You 
know  he  said  he  would  like  it  if  you  would  bring  them," 
and  she  placed  a  long  envelope  in  his  hand.  "  No,  I 
cannot  stop  a  moment,  Keith  is  waiting  for  me  in  the 
carriage.  I  did  not  give  the  papers  to  the  maid  because 
I  wanted  to  say  to  you,  Mr.  Everett,  that  Keith  does  not 
see  it  any  differently,  —  about  the  estate,  you  know.  He 
pledges  the  income,  freely,  altogether,  but  he  feels  that 
the  estate  itself  should  be  kept  intact." 

"  Thank  Heaven,  he  has  a  spark  of  reason  left ! " 
exclaimed  Ward  under  his  breath,  adding  quickly,  — 

"  Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Burgess,  but  you  know  I  am  not 
a  Gregorian  psalm  myself,  yet." 

Anna  turned  to  him  with  her  rare  smile,  less  brilliant 
than  clear  and  luminous. 

"  But  I  was  so  glad  you  came  to  the  house,  Professor 
Ward,  and  heard  Mr.  Gregory,"  she  said  with  gracious 
courtesy  ;  "  we  cannot  expect  every  one  to  follow  out 
these  new  theories  practically  as  we  hope  to  do,  but  at 
least  we  want  every  one  we  care  about  to  know  really 
what  they  are." 

"  Do  you  think  that  many  of  those  present  at  your 
house    that     afternoon    were    inclined    to    accept     Mr. 


Night  257 

Gregory's  gospel,  if  I  may  so  call  it  ?  "  asked  Ward, 
respectfully. 

"  Of  course  not,"  interjected  Everett,  "  there  was  no 
one  there  but  cranks  and  critics." 

Anna's  face  clouded  a  little.  "  No,"  she  said  simply. 
"Fulham  is  not  a  good  field  for  such  a  message;  it  was 
quite  different  in  Burlington.  Most  of  them  went  away 
saying  it  would  be  very  fine  if  it  were  not  wholly  impos- 
sible." 

"And  it  does  not  occur  to  you,  does  it,  Mrs.  Burgess," 
Ward  pressed  the  question  with  undisguised  earnestness, 
"  that  perhaps  they  were  right  ?  that  there  is  something 
to  be  said  for  the  old  order,  as  old  as  the  race  ?  that 
possibly  certain  distinctions  are  inherent  in  the  nature  of 
things  ?  Such  distinctions,  for  instance,  as  separate 
you,"  and  Ward  gave  the  pronoun  a  freight  of  signifi- 
cance to  carry,  "  from  that  man,"  and  he  indicated  a 
labourer  who  had  just  left  the  room  with  an  immense  box 
of  merchandise  on  his  broad,  bent  shoulders,  and  whose 
slow,  heavy  steps  could  now  be  heard  on  the  stairs 
below. 

He  had  struck  the  wrong  chord. 

"  Professor  Ward,"  cried  Anna,  her  voice  even  lower 
than  its  wont,  but  her  emphasis  the  more  intense,  "  did 
that  man  choose  to  be  reduced  to  the  life  and  little  more 
than  the  faculties  of  a  beast  of  burden,  to  be  a  brother 
to  the  ox,  to  live  a  blind,  brutalized,  animal  existence, 
with  neither  joy  nor  star  ?  " 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  added,  with  indescrib- 
able pathos  dimming  the  kindling  light  in  her  eyes  :  — 

"  It  is  that  man,  Professor  Ward,  and  what  he  stands 
for,  that  sends  me  to  Fraternia,  if  perhaps  I  can  yet 
atone.      It  is  I  that  have  made  that  man  what  he  is,  and 


258  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

you,  and  all  of  us  who  have  clung  gladly  to  our  powers 
and  privileges,  and  dared  to  believe  that  we  were  made 
for  the  heights  of  life,  and  men  like  him  for  the  abyss. 
If  we  could  read  our  New  Testament  once  as  if  it  were 
not  an  old  story  !  If  we,  for  one  moment,  could  lay  our 
social  cruelties  beside  that  pattern  shown  us  in  the 
mount !  " 

The  deep  heart  of  her  and  the  innermost  motive 
power  broke  forth  from  Anna's  usual  quiet  and  reserve 
in  these  last  words  with  thrilling  influence  upon  both 
men.  She  was  beautiful  as  she  spoke,  but  with  the 
beauty  of  some  Miriam  or  Cassandra,  —  a  woman,  as 
had  been  said  of  her  long  before,  "to  die  for,  not  to 
play  games  with." 

Professor  Ward,  the  irritation  of  his  earlier  mood 
quite  gone,  stood  regarding  Anna  as  she  spoke  with 
a  sadness  as  profound  as  it  was  wholly  unaffected. 
Having  spoken,  she  turned  to  go. 

"  Let  me  say  one  word,  Mrs.  Burgess,"  he  said,  ex- 
tending his  hand  to  detain  her  a  moment.  "  I  sympa- 
thize deeply  with  your  purposes,  and  I  am  not  wholly 
incapable  of  appreciating  your  motives.  From  my 
heart  I  shall  bid  you  God-speed  on  your  way  when  your 
time  comes  to  go  out  into  this  new  spiritual  adventure. 
It  will  be  none  the  less  noble  because  it  is  impossible." 

"  Good-by,"  she  said,  and  smiled. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped  spring  ? 

O  sweet  Content  ! 
Swim'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in  thine  own  tears? 

O  Punishment  ! 
Then  he  that  patiently  Want's  burden  bears 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king. 

O  sweet  Content,  O  sweet,  O  sweet  Content  ! 
Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace, 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face. 

—  Thomas  Dekker,  1600. 

A  valley,  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea  level, 
narrowing  at  its  upper  or  northern  end  to  a  ravine 
piercing  thickly  wooded  hills,  but  widening  gradually 
southward,  until,  a  mile  lower  down  the  mountain 
stream  which  issues  from  the  gorge,  it  becomes  a  broad 
sunny  meadow  land. 

On  a  day  in  the  middle  of  March,  when  the  sun 
shone  warm  and  a  turquoise  sky  arched  smiling  over 
this  valley,  signs  of  human  activity  and  energy  prevailed 
on  every  side.  In  the  bottom  lands  men  were  ploughing 
the  broad  level  fields ;  here  the  river  had  been  dammed, 
forming  a  pond,  on  the  bank  of  which  stood  a  large 
picturesque  building  sheathed  with  dark-green  shingles. 
From  the  wide  and  open  windows  of  this  building  the 
sound  of  whirring  spindles  and  the  joyous  laughter  of 
girls  and  men   issued. 

Higher  up  the  valley  men  were  at  work  building  a 
light  bridge  of  plank  across  the  creek,  while  others  were 
carting   newly  sawed    lumber,  with    its    strong   pungent 

259 


260  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

smell,  from  the  sawmill  below.  On  the  eastern  side 
of  the  valley,  between  this  bridge  and  the  mills  half  a 
mile  south,  were  scattered  or  grouped  at  irregular  inter- 
vals, forty  or  fifty  small  cabins,  some  of  log,  others  of 
unplaned  boards  ;  thatched,  or  covered  in  red  tile.  Men 
and  women  were  at  work  in  the  damp  mould  of  the 
gardens  by  which  these  cabins  were  surrounded,  and 
fresh  green  things  were  shooting  up.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  stream,  on  a  wooded  knoll,  stood  a  large, 
low,  barrack-like  building  with  a  red  roof,  and  near  it 
a  few  cabins.  It  was  opposite  this  group  of  buildings 
that  the  foot-bridge  was  in  process  of  making,  to  super- 
sede a  single  plank  and  rail  which  had  hitherto  con- 
nected the  banks  of  the  stream.  Down  the  valley  from 
this  small  and  separate  settlement  stretched  fields  already 
under  cultivation,  for  corn,  potatoes,  and  cotton. 

There  were  no  streets  in  this  rustic  settlement.  Foot- 
paths led  to  the  cottage  doors  through  the  thin,  coarse 
grass,  and  along  the  eastern  side  of  the  little  river;  and 
between  its  bank  and  the  houses  ran  a  rough  wagon 
road,  deeply  rutted  now  by  the  wheels  of  the  lumber 
wao-ons  in  the  soft,  red  soil.  To  the  north  and  east  the 
hills  rose  abruptly,  covered  with  oak  and  pine,  and  the 
aromatic  fragrance  of  the  latter  was  in  the  air,  mingling 
with  the  scent  of  the  soil.  Beyond  the  lower  hills  to 
the  west  loomed  the  shoulders  of  dim,  blue  mountains, 
while  looking  south,  down  the  shining  river,  beyond  a 
belt  of  woodland,  the  valley  broadened  out  to  the  sunny 
plain  stretching  to  the  horizon  line. 

The  limpid  clearness  of  the  air,  the  fragrance  of  the 
forest  and  the  earth,  the  musical  flow  of  the  little  river, 
the  wonderful  brilliancy  of  the  sky,  with  the  vast  uplift 
of  the  mountains,  gave  a  sense  of  wild  perfection  to  the 


Night  261 

ensemble.      Such   was    Fraternia    in    the    morning    of   its 
second  spring. 

It  was  during  that  decade  which  saw  the  sudden 
springing  into  life  of  so  large  a  number  of  communistic 
organizations  and  settlements  throughout  the  country, 
mainly  in  the  south  and  west.  Many  of  these  experi- 
ments were  crude  and  obscure ;  most  of  them  were 
shortlived.  They  were  founded  on  widely  different 
social  conceptions,  ranging  from  those  of  unlimited 
license  and  rank  anarchism  up  to  the  high  ideals  of  the 
life  of  Christian  brotherhood  set  forth  in  the  early 
church. 

The  latter  was  the  foundation  of  John  Gregory's 
colony  in  Fraternia.  Inflexible  morality  and  blameless- 
ness  of  Christian  living  were  his  cardinal  laws.  Built 
upon  them  was  the  superstructure  of  economic  and 
social  equality,  of  labour  sharing,  and  of  domestic  sim- 
plicity. 

Thus  far  unusual  promise  attended  the  adventure, 
and  peace  and  good-will  reigned  in  the  little  community. 

Toward  the  upper  end  of  the  village  half  a  dozen 
men  were  at  work  around  a  circular  excavation  not 
more  than  five  or  six  feet  in  diameter,  which  had  been 
lined  with  irregular  slabs  and  blocks  of  stone  patched 
together  with  clay.  In  blue  overalls  thickly  bespattered 
with  red  mud  and  the  sticky  clay,  a  man  was  working 
on  his  knees  at  the  edge  of  this  basin.  It  was  Keith 
Burgess.  Near  him,  measuring  with  rule  and  line  and 
marking  out  the  width  of  the  coping,  stood  the  artist, 
Pierce  Everett.  Their  fellow-workmen  were  two  Irish- 
men—  big,  active  fellows,  with  honest  eyes' — and  a  wiry 
little  black-a-vised  Jew,  a  quondam  foreman  in  a  New 
York  sweat-shop.      He  was   mixing  clay  and  laying  the 


262  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

stone  of  the  coping,  while  the  Irishmen  were  at  work 
in  an  open  trench  through  which  ran  the  pipe  which 
was  to  conduct  the  water  from  a  spring  in  the  ravine 
above  into  the  new  reservoir. 

Emerging  from  the  woods  below  the  dam  a  little 
crowd  of  children  came  straying  up  the  valley,  laughing 
and  shouting,  and  jumping  gayly  over  the  pools  of  red 
mud  in  the  road.  Their  hands  were  full  of  wild  flow- 
ers,—  bloodroot,  and  anemones,  and  arbutus;  their  hair 
was  blown  about  in  the  wind  ;  their  eyes  were  shining. 
Among  them,  giving  her  hand  to  a  little  girl  who 
walked  with  a  crutch,  walked  Anna  Burgess,  her  face 
as  joyous  as  theirs,  and  a  free,  unhampered  vigour  and 
grace  in  every  line  of  her  figure.  She  was  the  head 
teacher  in  the  village  school,  and  was  known  to  her 
scholars,  and,  indeed,  quite  generally  in  the  little  com- 
munity, as  "Sister  Benigna." 

This  name,  "  Benigna,"  which  had  come  down  in 
Anna's  family  for  generations,  and  had  been  given  her 
as  a  second  name,  had  not  been  used  for  many  years, 
save  by  her  mother,  who  still  clung  loyally  to  the  full 
"  Anna  Benigna."  Who  it  was  in  Fraternia  who  had 
revived  the  beautiful  old  Moravian  name  was  not 
known,  but  the  use  of  it  had  been  quickly  established, 
especially  among  the  children  and  the  foreign  folk. 

The  habit  of  using  "  Brother  "  and  "  Sister  "  with  the 
given  name  in  ordinary  social  intercourse  was  common, 
although  not  universal,  in  Fraternia.  Anna's  assistants 
in  the  school  —  a  pale,  little  English  governess,  who  had 
apparently  never  known  stronger  food  than  tea  and 
bread  until  she  came  to  Fraternia,  and  a  rosy-cheeked 
German  kindergartner — were  among  the  little  flock,  their 
hands   overflowing  with   wild    flowers,   and    their    faces 


Night  263 

with  the  high  delight  the  spring  day  brought  them.      It 
was  Saturday  morning,  and  a  holiday. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  shout  from  some  boys  who 
were  foremost  in  the  company,  and  they  came  scamper- 
ing back  to  Anna  exclaiming  that  the  "  fountain  "  was 
almost  finished,  and,  perhaps,  the  water  would  soon  be 
turned  into  it.  By  common  consent  the  whole  party 
hastened  on  and  soon  encircled  the  workmen  at  the 
basin  with  noisy  questions  and  merry  chatter.  It  was 
to  be  so  fine  not  to  have  to  go  up  to  the  spring  in  the 
ravine  with  pails  and  pitchers  any  more.  Could  they 
surely  have  the  water  here  for  Sunday  ?  Then  Fraulein 
Frieda  told  them  how  the  girls  in  her  country  came  to 
such  fountains  with  their  jugs,  and  carried  them  away 
full  on  their  heads.  She  showed  them  with  a  tin  pail, 
found  lying  in  the  clay,  just  how  it  was  done,  walking 
away  with  firm,  balanced  step,  the  pail  unsupported  on 
her  pretty  flaxen-haired  head,  on  which  the  sun  shone 
dazzlingly.  The  little  girls  were  greatly  delighted,  and 
all  declared  they  should  learn  to  carry  their  water  pots 
home  on  their  heads  from  the  !?)uelle,  as  Fraulein  Frieda 
called  it. 

Anna  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  basin,  Keith  at  her 
feet,  on  his  knees,  with  the  trowel  in  his  hands, 
smiling  up  at  her,  the  little  lame  girl  still  at  her  side, 
a  trace  of  wistfulness  in  her  eyes  as  she  watched  the 
others. 

"  We  will  not  carry  our  water  pails  on  our  heads,  you 
and  I,  will  we,  little  Judith  ?  "  Anna  asked,  kind  and 
motherly.  "  JVe  want  our  brains  to  grow,  and  it  might 
crowd  them  down  ;  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

The  swarthy  Jew  looked  up  from  the  clay  he  was 
mixing  with    quick,  instinctive    gratitude.     Judith   was 


264  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

his  child.  He  grinned  a  broad  and  rather  hideous  grin, 
and  exclaimed  in  a  broken  dialect :  — 

"  Das  ist  so,  Kleine ;  shust  listen  to  our  lady  !  She 
knows.      She  says  it  right." 

Pierce  Everett's  dark  eyes  flashed  with  sudden  enthu- 
siasm. Turning  to  Anna  he  bowed  profoundly  and  said 
low  to  Keith,  as  well  as  to  her :  — 

"  There  you  have  it  !  Barnabas  has  found  your  title 
—  <  our  lady  ' !  " 

Anna  looked  into  Everett's  dark  eager  eyes  with  her 
quiet  smile,  and  was  about  to  speak,  when  a  sudden 
noise  of  grating  and  rattling  and  horses'  hoofs  behind 
them  caused  them  all  three  to  turn  and  look  down  the 
river.  A  horse  and  stone  drag  were  approaching  rapidly, 
driven  by  John  Gregory,  who  stood  on  the  drag,  which 
was  loaded  with  big  clean  pebbles  from  the  river-bed. 
He  wore  a  coarse  grey  flannel  shirt,  the  collar  turned 
off"  a  little  at  the  throat,  and  rough  grey  trousers 
tucked  into  high  rubber  boots,  which  reached  to  the 
thio-hs.  The  cloth  cap  on  his  head  with  its  vizor  bore 
a  certain  resemblance  to  a  helmet,  and  altogether  the 
likeness  of  the  whole  appearance  to  that  of  a  Roman 
warrior  in  his  chariot  did  not  escape  the  three  friends 
who  watched  its  approach  in  the  motley  crowd  around 
the  basin. 

Gregory  drove  his  drag  close  up  to  the  edge  of  the 
coping,  now  nearly  laid,  greeted  the  company  with  a 
courteous  removal  of  his  hat  and  a  cordial  Good-morn- 
ing, then  discharged  the  load  of  pebbles  in  a  glinting 
heap  on  the  soft  red  earth. 

There  was  no  conscious  assumption  of  mastery  or 
direction  in  Gregory's  manner,  nothing  could  have  been 
simpler  or  more  democratic  than  the  impartial  comradcry 


Night  265 

with  which  he  joined  the  others,  nevertheless  the  sense 
that  the  master  was  among  them  was  instantly  commu- 
nicated throughout  the  little  group.  Up  in  the  trench, 
nearly  to  the  base  of  the  cliffs  which  marked  the  en- 
trance to  the  ravine,  one  Irishman  said  to  the  other,  in 
a  tone  of  satisfaction  not  unmixed  with  good-natured 
sarcasm :  — 

"  HimsilPs  come  now.  The  gintlemin  masons  will  git 
to  rights  or  they'll  lose  their  job,  d'ye  mind,  Patrick  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ay,"  said  the  other,  "  an'  the  same  to  yersilf,  if 
ye  ivir  noticed  it." 

There  was  a  little  silence  even  among  the  chattering 
children  as  Gregory  stooped  by  Everett's  side,  pulled  up 
with  the  ease  of  mighty  muscle  two  or  three  stones, 
took  the  trowel  from  Keith's  hand  and  a  hod  of  mortar 
from  the  waiting  Barnabas,  and  set  the  stones  over  on  a 
truer  line,  laughing  the  while  with  the  men  and  turning 
aside  the  edge  of  criticism  with  frank  self-disparagement, 
as  being  himself  but  a  tyro. 

A  curious  consequence  of  Gregory's  appearance  on 
the  scene  after  this  sort,  was  the  dwarfed  effect  of  the 
men  around  him,  who  suddenly  seemed  to  have  shrunk 
in  stature  and  proportions,  and  whose  motions,  beside 
the  virile  force  and  confident  freedom  of  his,  appeared 
incompetent  and  weak. 

Anna  had  drawn  back  from  her  place  near  the  basin's 
edge.  Gregory  had  not  looked  at  her  nor  she  at  him 
directly.  In  fact,  they  habitually,  for  some  reason  they 
themselves  could  not  define,  avoided  each  other,  and  yet 
could  not  avoid  a  piercing  consciousness,  when  together, 
of  every  look  and  word  of  the  other.  A  sudden  shyness 
and  subduing  had  fallen  instantly  upon  Anna's  bright 
mood,  and,  while  the   others  watched   every  look  and 


166  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

motion  of  Gregory  with  almost  breathless  interest,  she 
stood  apart  and  arranged  little  Judith's  flowers  with  ap- 
parent preoccupation. 

Tossing  the  trowel  back  to  Keith,  with  whom  he 
exchanged  a  few  words  of  question,  Gregory  next  has- 
tened with  long  strides  up  the  line  of  the  trench  to  the 
place  where  the  Irishmen  were  at  work.  Here  was  a 
primitive  moss-grown  trough,  into  which  the  water  of 
the  spring  had  hitherto  been  conducted,  and  to  which 
all  the  people  had  been  obliged  to  come  for  their  supply 
of  drinking  water.  The  new  iron  pipe  already  replaced 
the  rude  wooden  conduit  which  had  done  duty  until 
now,  but  the  water  still  flowed  into  the  trough,  and 
would  do  so  until,  the  basin  completed,  the  connection 
might  be  made  between  the  two  sections  of  pipe. 

Under  Gregory's  direction  this  was  now  effected,  and 
the  water  of  the  spring,  if  there  was  no  flaw,  should 
now  flow  unimpeded  into  the  basin  below.  To  test  the 
basin,  it  was  Gregory's  purpose  to  make  the  experiment 
at  once. 

Presently  there  was  a  shout,  exulting  and  joyous,  from 
the  company  below. 

"  The  water  is  here  !  The  water  !  The  water  !  " 
rose  the  cry  into  the  stillness  of  the  valley.  The  men 
at  work  upon  the  bridge  left  their  work,  and  hastened 
to  join  the  little  crowd. 

With  strides  even  longer  than  before,  Gregory  came 
down  again,  the  Irishmen  following  him  in  a  scram- 
ble to  keep  up.  Joy  was  in  all  their  faces,  and  the 
deepest  joy  of  all  in  that  of  Gregory.  They  stood 
together  and  watched  the  jet  of  water  as  it  sprang  from 
the  mouth  of  the  pipe,  turbid  at  first,  but  gradually 
becoming  clear  and    sparkling,  and    fell  with  a  gentle, 


Night  267 

musical  plashing  into  the  stone  fountain.  There  was 
complete  silence  for  a  little  space,  as  they  looked 
intently  at  the  increasing  depth  of  the  gathering  pool, 
and  then,  bringing  down  his  hands  with  a  will  on  the 
shoulders  of  Keith  and   Everett,  Gregory  exclaimed  :  — 

"  Men,  you  have  done  well,  all  of  you  !  It  holds,  do 
you  see?      It  is  tight  as  a  ship.      Hurrah  !  " 

They  all  joined  in  a  great  cheer,  and  then,  swiftly 
finding  where  she  stood,  or  knowing,  as  he  always 
seemed  to  know,  instinctively,  Gregory's  eyes  sought 
Anna  Burgess. 

"Will  Sister  Benigna  come  up  here?"  he  asked 
quietly,  with  the  unhesitating  steadiness  of  the  man  who 
knows  just  what  he  means  to  do. 

Anna  came  slowly  forward,  and  stood  on  the  new- 
laid  coping,  by  the  side  of  Gregory,  greatly  wondering. 
Just  beyond  her  was  Keith,  side  by  side  with  Barnabas 
Rosenblatt.  Meanwhile,  Gregory  had  taken  from  his 
pocket  a  small  folding  drinking*  cup  of  shining  metal, 
which  he  had  held  in  the  flow  of  the  spring  water  until 
it  was  thoroughly  purified.  Turning  now  to  look  at  all 
those  who  stood  round  about,  he  said  :  — 

"  Brothers,  sisters,  little  children,  this  water  is  the 
good  gift  of  God.  Let  this  fountain  be  now  conse- 
crated to  all  pure  and  holy  uses.  By  the  wish  which  I 
believe  to  be  in  every  one  of  you,  let  the  first  who  shall 
drink  of  this  living  water  from  the  new  fountain  be  our 
Sister  Benigna." 

With  these  words  Gregory  filled  the  cup  from  the 
sparkling  outgush  of  the  spring,  the  water  so  cold  that 
the  polished  cup  was  covered  with  frosty  dimness,  and 
with  simple  seriousness  handed  it  to  Anna.  Affection  and 
reverence  were    in    the  eyes  of  all  the  people  as  they 


268  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

watched  her  while  with  uncovered  head,  calm  brow, 
and  the  fine  simplicity  of  unconsciousness  she  took  the 
cup  and  drank.  But  with  the  first  touch  of  her  lips  to 
the  cup  the  hand  in  which  she  held  it  trembled  ;  and 
when  she  drained  the  last  drop,  it  trembled  still.  As 
Anna  stepped  back,  having  drunk,  into  the  ranks,  Greg- 
ory lifted  his  hand,  and  with  the  gesture  which  com- 
mands devotion  repeated  the  ancient  words, — 

" *  O  most  high,  almighty,  good  Lord  God,  to  thee 
belong  praise,  glory,  honour,  and  all  blessing  ! 

" '  Praised  be  my  Lord  for  our  brother  the  wind,  and 
for  air  and  cloud,  calms  and  all  weather,  by  the  which 
thou  upholdest  in  life  all  creatures. 

"  '  Praised  be  my  Lord  for  our  sister,  water,  who  is 
very  serviceable  unto  us,  and  humble,  and  precious,  and 
clear.'  " 

Then  with  a  deeper  solemnity  and  significance  in 
face  and   voice,  he  continued  :  — 

"'If  thou  knewest«the  gift  of  God  and  who  it  is 
that  saith  to  thee,  Give  me  to  drink  ;  thou  wouldest  have 
asked  of  him  and  he  would  have  given  thee  living  water.' 

"'Jesus  said,  If  any  man  thirst,  let  him  come  to  me 
and  drink.'  " 

It  was  noon,  and  turning  they  all  dispersed,  each  to 
his  own  place,  a  deepened  gladness  in  their  faces.  But 
as  for  Anna  Burgess,  a  dimness  was  upon  her  joy,  a 
thrilling  undercurrent  of  dread  and  wonder  which  she 
could  not  understand  •,  for  she  had  drunk  of  the  Cup 
of  Trembling  —  and  knew  it  not. 


CHAPTER    XXX 

We've  toiled  and  failed  ;   we  spake  the  word  ; 

None  hearkened  ;  dumb  we  lie  ; 
Our  Hope  is  dead,  the  seed  we  spread 

Fell  o'er  the  earth  to  die. 

What's  this  ?     For  joy  our  hearts  stand  still, 

And  life  is  loved  and  dear, 
The  lost  and  found  the  cause  hath  crowned, 

The  Day  of  Days  is  here. 

—  William  Morris. 

The  Burgesses  had  come  to  Fraternia  in  the  preced- 
ing December,  although  Keith  had  soon  left  again, 
having  still  many  business  concerns  to  recall  him  to 
Fulham.  The  house  there  was  now  closed,  and  the 
life  there  for  them  presumably  ended,  and,  late  in  Feb- 
ruary, Keith  had  returned  to  Fraternia. 

Anna  had  employed  the  months  between  their  deci- 
sion to  join  the  cooperative  colony  and  their  actual 
journey  to  the  South,  in  taking  a  short  course  in  nursing 
in  a  Fulham  hospital,  reviving  her  old  knowledge  of  the 
subject,  gained  in  her  girlhood  in  Burlington.  She  had 
it  in  mind  to  fit  herself  thus  as  thoroughly  as  the  brief 
interval  allowed,  for  the  duties  of  a  trained  nurse  to  the 
little  community,  this  being  an  occupation  at  once  con- 
genial to  herself  and  important  for  the  general  good. 
For  uniformity  of  service  was  by  no  means  according 
to  John  Gregory's  plan,  and  Gertrude  Ingraham  might 
not  have  found  herself  shut  up  to  the  cotton  mill  even 
if  she  had  done  so  incredible  a  thing  as  to  throw  in  her 

269 


270  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

fortunes  with  Fraternia.  All  must  labour,  and  all  must 
labour  for  the  general  good,  —  one  of  Gregory's  prime 
maxims  being,  If  a  man  will  not  work,  neither  shall 
he  eat ;  but  as  far  as  practicable  that  labour  was  to  be 
on  the  line  of  each  person's  best  capacity,  choice,  and 
development.  Thus  Keith  Burgess's  feat  of  stonelay- 
ing  had  not  been  enforced,  but  self-chosen,  as  an  expres- 
sion of  his  good-will  in  the  sharing  the  coarser  labours  of 
the  people.  The  work  to  which  he  had  been  assigned 
by  Gregory  was  clerical,  not  manual,  being  that  of 
secretary  to  the  colony. 

Anna,  thus  far,  had  had  no  opportunity  for  any  especial 
use  of  her  vocation  as  nurse,  the  families  of  Fraternia 
being  remarkably  healthy  under  the  simple  and  whole- 
some conditions  of  their  life,  and  serious  illness  unknown 
during  that  winter.  Her  trained  and  well-equipped 
mind  obviously  fitted  her  for  a  work  of  intellectual  rather 
than  industrial  character,  and  the  duties  of  teaching 
the  children  of  the  colony  five  hours  a  day  —  the  required 
time  of  service  for  the  women  —  were  given  to  her  by 
common  consent. 

Neither  at  the  time  when  she  was  chosen  to  this 
service,  nor  at  any  other,  had  John  Gregory  directly 
communicated  his  wishes  to  Anna  or  discussed  his  plans 
with  her;  and  yet,  from  the  day  of  her  arrival  in  Frater- 
nia he  had  perhaps  never  formed  a  plan  which  was  not 
in  some  subtle  manner  shaped  by  unconscious  reference 
to  her.  In  her  own  way,  Anna's  personality  was  hardly 
less  conspicuous  than  his;  and  these., two  invisibly  and 
involuntarily  modified  each  the  other's  action  and  de- 
liberation as  the  orbits  of  two  stars  are  influenced  by 
their  mutual  attraction  and  repulsion. 

By  the  whole  habit  and  choice  of  his  life  John  Greg- 


Night  271 

ory  was  a  purist  in  morals  and  in  his  personal  practice 
of  simplicity.  The  most  frugal  fare  and  the  simplest 
domestic  appliances  served  his  turn  by  preference,  al- 
though he  had  been  born  and  bred  in  comparative  lux- 
ury. He  was  free  and  fraternal  with  men;  gently 
respectful  to  women,  whom  he  yet  never  treated  as  if 
they  were  superior  to  men  by  force  of  their  weakness, 
but  rather  as  being  on  a  basis  of  accepted  equality ; 
while  to  little  children  he  always  showed  winning  ten- 
derness. Socially,  however,  he  scrupulously  avoided 
intercourse  with  women,  with  a  curious,  undeviating 
persistency  which  almost  suggested  ascetic  withdrawal. 
The  other  men  of  the  colony,  several  of  whom  were 
men  of  some  social  rank  and  mental  culture,  found  it 
pleasant  to  stop  on  the  woodland  paths  or  by  the  stream, 
all  the  more  in  these  soft  spring  days,  and  exchange 
thought  and  word,  light  or  grave,  with  the  girls  and 
women,  but  never  once  had  Gregory  been  seen  to  do 
this,  or  to  visit  the  households  presided  over  by  women 
on  any  errand  whatever.  Whether  a  line  of  action 
which  thus  inevitably  separated  him  more  and  more 
from  the  domestic  life  of  the  people,  was  pursued  by 
deliberate  purpose  or  by  the  accident  of  personal  incli- 
nation was  not  clear,  but  certain  it  was  that  the  fact 
contributed  to  the  distinction  and  separation  which 
seemed  inevitably  to  belong  to  Gregory.  With  all 
his  simplicity  of  life  and  democratic  brotherliness  of 
conversation,  he  lived  and  moved  in  Fraternia  with 
an  effect  of  one  on  a  wholly  different  plane  from  the 
others,  and  with  the  full  practical  exercise  of  a  dictator- 
ship which  no  one  resented  because  all  regarded  him 
with  a  species  of  hero-worship  as  manifestly  the  master 
of  the  situation. 


272  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

His  residence  was  in  one  of  the  small  cabins  on  the 
western  side  of  the  river,  to  which  the  bridge  gave  con- 
venient access.  The  other  cabins  served,  one  as  a 
rude,  temporary  library,  the  other  as  storehouse,  while 
the  large  barrack-like  building  furnished  bachelor  quarters 
for  the  unmarried  men.  Gregory,  since  Everett's  arri- 
val, had  shared  his  house  with  the  artist.  Their  meals 
were  taken  in  common  with  the  other  men.  No  one 
was  in  the  habit  of  entering  the  house,  Gregory  having 
a  kind  of  office,  agreeably  furnished,  at  the  cotton  mill, 
where  he  was  usually  to  be  found  when  not  at  work  in 
field  or  wood.  This  was,  however,  often  the  case,  for 
he  never  failed  to  discharge  the  daily  quota  of  manual 
labour  which  he  had  assigned  himself;  and  it  was  notice- 
able to  all  that  if  any  task  were  of  an  offensive  or  difficult 
nature,  he  was  the  one  to  assume  it  first  and  as  a  matter 
of  course.  It  was  owing  to  this  characteristic,  perhaps 
more  than  to  any  other,  save  his  singular  personal 
ascendency,  that  the  silent  dictatorship  of  Gregory  in 
the  little  community  was  so  cheerfully  accepted.  Nom- 
inally the  government  of  the  village  was  in  the  hands 
of  a  board  of  directors,  with  an  inner  executive  com- 
mittee, and  of  which  Gregory  was  chairman.  Several 
women  served  on  the  larger  board.  Keith  Burgess  was 
a  director;  Anna's  name  had  not  been  proposed  for  the 
office.  There  had  been  but  one  vacancy  in  the  board 
on  their  arrival,  which  was  sufficient  reason.  The 
councils  of  the  directors  were  held  weekly  in  Gregory's 
office,  and  thus  far  a  good  degree  of  harmony  prevailed. 

Again  it  was  Saturday  morning.  A  week  had  passed 
which  had  brought  many  days  of  heavy  rain.  The 
river,  swollen  and  yellow,  dashed  noisily  down  from  the 
gorge  and  filled  its  channel  below  with  deep  and  urgent 


Night  2y3 

current.  On  its  turbid  flood  appeared  from  time  to 
time  newly  felled  logs,  floated  down  from  the  regions 
above,  where  Fraternia  men  were  at  work,  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  swollen  river  for  conveying  their  lumber  to 
the  sawmill.  A  west  wind,  the  night  before,  had 
blown  the  clouds  before  it,  and  this  morning  the  sun 
shone  from  an  effulgent  sky ;  the  wind  had  died  to  a 
soft  breeze  laden  with  manifold  fragrance ;  and  in  place 
of  the  chill  of  the  north,  the  air  possessed  the  indescrib- 
able softness  and  balm  of  the  southern  spring. 

It  was  again  a  busy  morning  in  Fraternia,  and  every- 
where, and  in  all  the  homely  tasks,  thrilled  the  unchecked 
joy  in  simple  existence  of  innocent  hearts  living  out  their 
normal   bent   for  mutual  help  and  burden-sharing.      In 
the  garden  ground   around  their  house,  which  was  high 
up  the  valley  in  a  group  of  three  others,  one  of  which 
contained  the  common  kitchen  and  dining  room  for  the 
inmates  of  all,  Anna  Burgess  was  at  work  in  her  garden, 
sowing  and  planting  in  the  damp  soil.      Glancing  down 
the  valley,  she  could  see  Everett  hard  at  work  with  an- 
other man,   who  had  been  an   architect   in   Burlington, 
erecting  a  little   thatched    pavilion,  of   original   design' 
graceful   and    rustic,   to   protect   the   new  and   precious 
fountain  from  the  sun,  and  keep  its  water  clean  and  ser- 
viceable.     Across  the   river,   in   the  library,   Keith,  she 
knew,  was  at  work  at  his  bookkeeping,  and  also  at  the 
task  of  collecting  excerpts  from   the  writings  of  social 
economists  for  use  in  an  address  which  he  was  prepar- 
ing.    A  new  mental    activity  had    been    stimulated   in 
Keith  by  the  change  of  climate  and  conditions,  and  the 
influx  of  new  ideas ;   and  the  ease  and  cheerfulness  with 
which  he  had  adapted  himself  to  the  primitive  habits  of 
pioneer  life,  would  have  amazed  his  friend  Ward. 


274  A  Woman   of  Yesterday- 

Barnabas  had  been  gathering  one  or  two  sizable 
slabs  of  stone  which  had  been  left  from  the  lining  and 
coping  of  the  fountain,  and  Anna  watched  him  a  mo- 
ment as,  having  loaded  them  into  a  wheelbarrow,  he 
proceeded  to  carry  them  down  to  the  new  bridge,  and 
so  across  to  the  west  side  of  the  river.  She  hardly 
cared  to  wonder  what  he  was  about  to  do,  being  other- 
wise absorbed,  and  her  eyes  did  not  follow  him  as  he 
wheeled  his  burden  on  up  the  knoll  on  which  were  the 
library  and  the  house  of  Gregory,  set  in  their  bit  of  pine 
wood. 

The  door  of  Gregory's  cabin  stood  open,  as  was  cus- 
tomary in  Fraternia  in  mild  weather.  Barnabas  dropped 
the  burden  from  his  barrow  just  before  the  open  door, 
stood  to  wipe  the  sweat  from  his  forehead,  and  then, 
kneeling,  began  the  self-imposed  effort  of  placing  the 
stones  together  for  a  low  step,  which  was  yet  lacking  to 
the  rudely  finished  house.  As  he  worked,  he  now  and 
then  lifted  his  eyes  and  glanced  into  the  interior  of  the 
house  which  he  had  never  entered.  It  had  the  walls 
and  ceiling  of  unplaned,  uncovered  boards  of  all  the 
Fraternia  houses ;  the  floor  was  absolutely  bare  and 
absolutely  clean,  damp  in  spots  and  redolent  of  soap 
from  recent  scrubbing.  The  open  windows  let  in  the 
sun-warmed,  piney  air,  but  the  light  was  obscured,  the 
trees  growing  close  to  the  house,  and  a  dim  gold-green 
twilight  reigned  in  the  silent  room.  A  door  stood  open 
into  the  second  room  where  two  narrow  iron  beds  came 
within  the  field  of  vision.  There  was  the  ordinary 
chimney,  built  of  brick,  of  ample  proportions,  with  a 
pine  shelf  running  across,  and  in  the  fireplace  logs  of  fat 
pine  laid  for  a  blaze  in  the  evening,  which  was  still  sure 
to  be  cool.      Plain   wooden    arm-chairs    stood   near  the 


Night  275 

hearth  ;  an  uncovered  table  of  home  manufacture, 
clumsy  and  heavy,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  was 
thickly  strewn  with  books  and  papers  and  writing  mate- 
rials. It  was  the  typical  Fraternia  interior,  —  bare,  and 
yet  not  comfortless,  and  with  its  own  effect  of  simple 
distinction,  conveyed  by  absolute  cleanness,  order,  and 
the  absence  of  the  superfluous. 

But  it  was  none  of  these  details  which  caught  the  eye 
of  Barnabas.  Above  the  chimney  there  was  fastened 
by  hidden  screws  close  against  the  wall,  so  that  it  had 
the  effect  of  a  panel,  a  picture,  unframed,  showing  the 
figure  of  a  slender  girl  with  uplifted  head  and  solemn 
eyes,  set  against  an  Oriental  background.  It  was 
Everett's  study  of  the  Girlhood  of  the  Virgin,  and 
besides  it  there  was  no  picture  nor  decoration  of  any 
sort  in  the  place. 

Each  time  he  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  stones  before 
him  to  the  picture  whose  high  lights  gleamed  strangely 
through  the  dimness  of  the  room  within,  Barnabas  was 
more  impressed  with  some  elusive  resemblance  in  the 
face  ;  and  at  last,  striking  the  stone  with  his  hand,  he 
murmured  to  himself  in  his  native  tongue,  "Now  I 
have  it !  The  damsel  there  is  like  our  lady  when  she 
prays." 

Meanwhile  the  river  ran  between  and  thundered  over 
the  dam  below ;  the  red  roofs  gleamed  warm  in  the  sun, 
and  Anna,  down  on  her  knees  like  Barnabas,  on  a  bit 
of  board,  was  tending  her  bulbs  with  loving  hands, 
while  within  her  was  springing  a  very  rapture  of  poetic 
joy.  Almost  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  con- 
scious of  unalloyed  happiness.  Was  it  because  the  skv 
was  blue  ?  or  because  the  vital  flood  of  spring  beat  and 
surged  about  her  in  the  river,  in  the  forest,  in  the  air  ? 


276  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

Not  wholly;  nor  even  because  under  these  kindly  influ- 
ences all  the  dormant  poetic  and  creative  instincts  of  her 
nature  were  stirring  into  luxuriant  blossoming,  although 
all  these  things  filled  her  with  throbbing  delight.  The 
deeper  root  of  her  joy  was  in  the  satisfaction,  so  long 
delayed,  of  her  passion  for  brotherhood  with  lowly  men 
and  poor ;  the  release  from  the  constraint  of  artificial 
conventions,  and  from  the  painful  sense,  which  she  could 
never  escape  in  the  years  of  her  Fulham  life,  that  she 
owed  to  every  weary  toiler  who  passed  her  on  the  street 
an  apology  for  her  own  leisure,  her  luxury  and  ease. 

Suddenly  Anna  rose,  and  stood  facing  the  west,  her 
eyes  full  of  light.  A  voice  within  her  had  called  and 
said  :  — 

u  I  can  write  poetry  now,  and  I  will ! "  The  fulness 
of  energy  of  joy  and  fulfilment  in  her  spirit  sought  ex- 
pression as  naturally  as  the  mountain  spring  sought  its 
outlet  in  the  fountain  below. 

Just  then  her  neighbour,  in  the  house  on  the  left,  —  it 
was  the  dining-house,  —  put  her  head  out  of  the  window 
and  said,  reflectively  :  — 

"  Say,  Sister  Benigna,  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  get  the 
dinner  up  into  the  woods  to  the  men-folks.  It's  half- 
past  eleven  and  time  it  went  this  minute,  and  Charley 
has  gone  down  to  Spalding  after  the  mail ;  but  I  sup- 
pose it's  late  or  something.  Anyway  he  ain't  here,  and 
I've  got  the  rest  to  wait  on." 

"  Why,  I  could  take  the  dinner  pails  up  to  them, 
Sister  Amanda,"  answered  Anna,  obligingly.  The 
"  men-folks  "  alluded  to  were  of  her  own  group  of  fami- 
lies and  were  felling  lumber  in  the  woods  north  of  the 
valley. 

"  You    couldn't    do    it    alone,    but    Fraulein    Frieda, 


Night  277 

she'd  be  tickled  to  death  to  go  with  you.  There  she 
is  now,"  and  Sister  Amanda  flew  to  the  cabin  door 
through  which  a  neatly  ordered  dinner  table  could  be 
seen,  and  shouted  down  the  slope  to  the  young  German 
teacher  who  had  just  come  over  the  bridge  with  some 
books  on  her  arm  from  the  library. 

A  few  moments  later  Anna  sallied  out  from  the  house 
with  Frieda,  both  carrying  well-stored  dinner  pails. 

"  No  matter,"  said  Anna,  smiling  at  the  sudden  diver- 
sion from  her  poetic  inspiration  ;"  it  is  better  to  live 
brotherhood  than  to  sing  brotherhood.  But  some  day, 
maybe,  yet,  I   shall  sing." 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

Heaven's  gift  takes  earth's  abatement  ! 
He  who  smites  the  rock  and  spreads  the  water, 
Bidding  drink  and  live  a  crowd  beneath  him, 
Even  he,  the  minute  makes  immortal, 
Proves,  perchance,  but  mortal  in  the  minute, 
Desecrates,  belike,  the  deed  in  doing. 

—  Robert   Browning. 

Relays  of  men  had  been  at  work  in  the  woods  cloth- 
ing the  steep  banks  of  the  ravine  above  Fraternia  for 
three  days,  even  while  the  rain  was  falling  in  torrents. 
It  was  absolutely  necessary  to  secure  the  lumber  while 
the  river  was  of  a  depth  to  carry  it  down  stream,  and  for 
a  time  all  other  work  was  in  abevance. 

Gregory  had  worked  steadily  with  the  rest  at  the 
wood  cutting,  but  Keith  had  told  Anna  the  night  be- 
fore that  on  Saturday  morning  he  would  be  obliged  to 
go  down  to  Spalding,  the  small  town  in  the  plain  below 
the  valley,  on  urgent  business  concerning  notes  which 
were  coming  due  and  must  be  extended  if  possible. 

It  was  therefore  with  great  surprise  that  Anna,  as 
they  approached  the  spot  where  the  men  were  at  work, 
heard  Frieda  exclaim  :  — 

"There  is  the  master  himself;   see,  Sister  Benigna !  " 

They  had  had  a  merry  scramble  up  the  gorge,  but  a 
hard  one.  The  swollen  stream  had  submerged  the  nar- 
row path  by  which  the  ascent  was  commonly  made, 
and  it  was  only  by  finding  the  footholds  cut  out  by  the 
men  with  their  axes  in  the  earth  of  the  dripping,  slippery 
bank   above,  that   Anna    and   her  companion   had   been 

278 


Night  279 

able  to  make  their  way  on.  Holding  their  pails  with 
one  hand  and  clinging  to  overhanging  branches  or  roots 
of  ferns  and  laurel  with  the  other,  shaking  the  splashes 
of  rain  from  the  dripping  leaves  as  they  struck  their 
faces,  the  two  had  scrambled  breathlessly  forward ;  and 
now,  at  length,  the  welcome  sound  of  the  axe  greeted 
their  ears,  and  they  saw  a  little  beyond,  strewing  the 
underbrush,  the  new  chips  and  shining  splinters  of 
stripped  bark  which  told  that  trees  had  recently  been 
felled. 

Anna  had  just  stopped  to  exclaim:  — 

"How  good  it  smells,  Frieda,  —  such  a  wild,  pure 
smell  !  "  and  was  laughing  at  her  own  choice  of  ad- 
jectives, when  Frieda  had  called  her  attention  to  John 
Gregory.  He  was  standing  at  no  great  distance  from 
them  in  the  midst  of  the  rapid,  roaring  creek  where  the 
water  reached  nearly  to  the  tops  of  his  high  boots,  and, 
with  a  strong  pole  in  both  hands,  was  directing  the 
course  of  the  logs,  which  were  eddying  wildly  about  him 
on  the  surface  of  the  torrent,  into  the  proper  channel 
which  should  carry  them  down  stream. 

Frieda's  voice  attracted  his  attention  to  their  approach, 
and  without  pause  he  strode  through  the  water,  leaped 
up  the  bank  and  was  promptly  in  the  path,  if  it  could  be 
called  such,  before  them,  holding  out  both  hands  to 
relieve  them  of  their  burdens,  and  smiling  a  cordial 
greeting. 

Anna's  cheeks  wore  a  vivid  flush. 

"  Then  you  did  not  go  to  Spalding  ? "  she  asked, 
seeking  to  quiet  the  confusion  of  her  surprise  and 
the  immoderate  beating  of  her  heart.  Frieda,  she 
saw  gratefully,  was  quite  as  excited  ;  it  was  so  unusual 
for  Mr.  Gregory  to  bestow  attentions  of  this  sort  upon 


2.8o  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

them;  it  was  not  strange  that  one  should  be  a  little 
stirred. 

"No,"  he  said,  leading  on  in  the  now  broadening 
path,  "  I  found  I  could  send  a  letter  by  Charley,  and 
the  men  rather  needed  a  long-legged  fellow  like  myself 
up  here  this  morning.  But  I  see  that  my  doing  this  has 
reacted  unexpectedly  upon  you.  Charley  not  being  on 
hand  to  bring  the  dinner,  our  ladies  have  had  to  take 
his  place,"  and  Gregory  turned  toward  them  as  he 
spoke  with  regret  and  apology  which  were  evidently 
sincere. 

"  Are  you  very  tired?"  he  asked  simply,  looking  at 
Frieda  but  speaking  to  Anna. 

They  both  declared  that  it  had  been  great  fun  and 
they  were  not  in  the  least  tired  ;  and  indeed  the  bright 
bloom  of  their  cheeks,  and  the  laughter  in  their  eyes, 
and  the  elastic  firmness  of  their  steps  were  sufficient 
reassurance. 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Gregory,"  said  Anna,  quite  at  her  ease 
now,  "  that  Fraternia  women  can  never  know  anything 
of  that  disease  of  civilization,  nervous  prostration.  It 
will  become  extinct  in  one  spot  at  least." 

"  '  More  honoured  in  the  breach  than  the  observance,'  " 
quoted  Gregory,  "  we  shall  hail  its  loss." 

Soon  they  reached  a  little  clearing,  where,  the  under- 
brush trampled  down,  the  rugged  steepness  of  the  bank 
declining  to  a  gentler  slope,  and  the  sun  having  found 
full  entrance  by  reason  of  the  removal  of  the  larger  trees, 
there  was  a  possibility  of  finding  a  dry  place  to  rest. 
Here  they  were  soon  joined  by  half  a  dozen  men,  several 
of  whom  had  brought  their  dinner  with  them,  and  prep- 
arations were  made  for  a  fire  to  heat  the  cofFee  which 
filled  one  of  the  pails  brought  by  Anna  and  Frieda.      The 


Night  281 

other  was  solidly  packed  with  sweet,  wholesome  brown 
bread  and  butter  and  thick  slices  of  meat. 

The  fat  pine  chips  and  splinters  burned  readily  in 
spite  of  the  all-pervading  dampness,  and  the  coffee-pail, 
suspended  over  this  small  camp-fire  from  a  hastily  impro- 
vised tripod,  was  soon  sending  up  a  deliciously  fragrant 
steam. 

The  men  treated  the  two  women  as  if  they  had  been 
foreign  princesses,  covering  a  great  tree-trunk  with 
their  coats  for  a  kind  of  throne  for  them,  and  serving 
them  with  coffee  in  tin  cups  with  much  flourish  of  mock 
ceremony.  This  part  of  the  proceedings  John  Gregory 
watched  from  a  little  distance,  leaning  against  a  tree, 
a  smile  of  quiet  pleasure  in  his  eyes.  He  refused  the 
coffee  for  himself,  drinking  always  and  only  water,  but 
ate  the  bread  and  meat  they  handed  him  with  hearty 
relish  and  a  vast  appetite. 

By  a  sort  of  inevitable  gravitation,  almost  before  the 
meal  was  concluded,  Frieda  had  strayed  off  into  the 
woods  with  Matt  Taylor,  son  of  Anna's  neighbour, 
whose  devotion  to  her  was  one  of  the  especial  interests 
for  Fraternia  folk  that  spring.  A  certain  view  from  the 
crest  of  the  hill  beyond  the  little  clearing  was  by  no 
means  to  be  missed.  Then,  one  after  the  other,  the  men 
took  up  their  axes  and  returned  to  their  work ;  but  John 
Gregory  kept  his  place,  and  still  stood  leaning  against  the 
tree,  facing  Anna,  the  smouldering  embers  of  the  fire 
between. 

He  had  been  speaking  on  a  subject  in  which  all  had 
been  interested,  —  the  prayer  test  advocated  by  Mr. 
Tyndall,  which  had  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
scientific  and  religious  world  of  that  time.  The  men 
had  gone  away  reluctantly,  leaving  the  conversation  to 


282  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

these  two.  Heretofore  Anna  had  hardly  spoken,  but 
now  with  deepening  seriousness  she  said  :  — 

"  I  feel  the  crude,  incredible  impertinence  of  such  a 
test  as  this  which  Mr.  Tyndall  has  proposed,  and  yet 
it  brings  up  very  keenly  to  me  my  own  attitude  for 
many  years." 

Gregory  looked  a  question,  but  did  not  speak,  and 
Anna  went  on  :  — 

"  A  good  woman  whom  I  once  heard  speak  at  Mrs. 
Ingraham's  in  Burlington  gave  me  an  idea  of  prayer, 
quite  new  to  me  then,  but  which  I  at  least  partially 
accepted,  and  which  has  had  its  efFect  on  my  inner  life 
ever  since." 

"It  was  —  ?" 

"  That  we  were  to  pray  to  God  for  every  small 
material  interest  of  life,  and  were  to  expect  definite, 
concrete,  physical  return.  That  if  such  was  not  our 
experience  it  was  because  we  were  not  dwelling  near 
God,  and  were  out  of  harmony  with  him.  This  life  of 
answered  prayer  and  perfect  demonstrable  union  which 
she  described  was  called  the  '  higher  life.'" 

"What  was  your  own  experience  ?  " 

"  It  has  been  a  long  experience  of  spiritual  defeat. 
I  prayed  for  years  for  every  temporal  need,  asked  for 
whatever  I  deeply  desired,  and  — never  —  perhaps  there 
was  one  exception,  but  hardly  more  —  received  an 
answer  to  my  praying  which  I  could  fairly  assume  to  be 
such." 

Anna's  face  was  profoundly  sad,  as  she  spoke,  with 
the  sense  of  the  baffling  disappointments  of  years. 

"  In  the  end  what  has  been  the  efFect  on  you  ? " 

"  I  have  ceased  to  pray  at  all,  Mr.  Gregory.  I  know 
that  sounds   very  harsh,  perhaps   very  wrong,  but  I  lost 


Night  283 

the  expectation  of  a  response,  and  the  constant  defeat 
and  failure  made  me  bitter  and  unbelieving.  God  seemed 
only  to  mock  my  prayers,  not  to  fulfil.  It  seemed  to 
me  at  last  that  I  was  dishonouring  him  by  praying,  and 
that  waiting  in  silence  and  patience  was  shown  to  be  my 
portion.      Do  you  think  that  was  sinful  ?  " 

Anna  raised  her  eyes  timidly  to  Gregory's  face  with 
this  question,  and  met  the  repose  and  steady  confidence 
of  it  with  a  swift  presentiment  of  comfort. 

"  No,"  he  answered;  "I  think  you  were  simply  strug- 
gling to  release  yourself  from  the  meshes  of  the  net 
which  a  mercenary  conception  of  prayer  cannot  fail  to 
throw  over  the  soul.  It  was  said  of  John  Woolman, 
and  a  holier  man  never  lived,  that  he  offered  no  prayers 
for  special  personal  favours.  I  believe  the  theory  of 
prayer  of  your  Burlington  friend  not  only  mistaken, 
but  dangerous  and  misleading.  Instead  of  such  a  habit 
of  mind  as  she  described  being  a  '  higher  life,'  I  should 
call  it  a  lower  one.  The  nearer  the  man  comes  to  God, 
the  less  he  prays,  not  the  more,  for  definite  objective 
things  and  externals  ;  the  more  he  rests  on  the  great 
good  will  of  God.  Prayer  was  not  designed  for  man  to 
use  to  conform  a  reluctant  God  to  his  will,  to  get  things 
given  him,  but  to  conform  the  man's  own  blind  and 
erring  will  to  the  divine.  By  this  I  do  not  mean  to 
say  that  no  prayers  for  temporal  objects  are  granted. 
Many  have  been,  but  the  soul  that  feeds  itself  on  this 
conception  of  prayer  as  a  system  of  practical  demand 
and  supply  lives  on  husks." 

"  But  there  are  many  promises  ?  "  Anna  said  with 
hesitation. 

"  Yes,"  said  Gregory,  with  the  emphasis  of  sure  con- 
viction,   crossing    the    space    between    them     to    stand 


284  A  Woman   of  Yesterday 

directly  before  her,  forgetting  all  his  usual  scruples; 
"  but  you  must  interpret  Scripture  by  Scripture,  by  the 
whole  tendency  and  purpose,  not  by  isolated  mottoes 
which  men  like  to  drag  out  for  spiritual  decoration, 
breaking  off"  short  all  their  roots  which  reach  down  into 
the  solid  rock  of  universal  Truth  !  Look  at  our  Lord 
himself  —  did  he  ask  for  lease  and  rest  and  joys'? 
It  is  only  as  we  enter  into  his  spirit  that  our  prayers  are 
answered,  and  that  almost  means  that  we  shall  cease  to 
pray  at  all  for  personal  benefits.  He  prayed,  often, 
whole  nights  together,  but  was  it  that  he  might  win  his 
own  cause  with  the  people  about  him  ?  Was  it  not 
rather  for  the  multitudes  upon  whom  he  had  compassion, 
and  that  God  the  Father  should  be  made  manifest  in 
himself?  Ah,  Sister  Benigna,  few  of  us  have  sounded 
the  depths  of  this  great  subject  of  prayer.  It  is  one  of 
the  deepest  things  of  God  ;  and,  believe  me,  it  is  not 
until  we  have  cast  out  utterly  the  last  shred  of  the  notion 
of  childish  coaxing  of  God  to  do  what  will  please  us, 
that  we  can  catch  some  small  perception  of  its  meaning. 
But  let  me  say  just  one  thing  more :  you  are  too  young 
to  count  any  prayer  unanswered.  At  present  you  see 
in  part  and  interpret  God's  dealings  only  in  part.  At 
the  end  of  life  your  interpretation  will  be  larger,  calmer 
than  it  is  now.  We  '  change  the  cruel  prayers  we  made,' 
and  even  here  live  to  praise  God  that  they  are  broken 
away  '  in  his  broad,  loving  will.'  " 

Anna  sat  in  silence,  her  eyes  downcast,  slowly  passing 
in  review  the  nature  of  her  own  most  ardent  prayers  and 
the  deep  anguish  and  doubt  of  their  non-fulfilment. 
Not  one,  she  saw,  could  bear  the  high  test  of  likeness  to 
the  mind  of  Christ,  not  one  but  had  its  admixture  of 
selfishness,   not   one  but   seemed   poor  and   vain   in  this 


Night  285 

new  light.  A  nobler  conception  of  the  relation  of  her 
soul  to  God  seemed  to  dawn  within  her.  She  looked  up 
then,  and  saw  upon  Gregory's  face  that  inner  illumina- 
tion which  belongs  to  the  religious  genius.  The  look 
of  it  smote  her  eyes  as  if  with  white  and  dazzling 
light,  and  they  fell  as  if  it  were  impossible  to  bear  it. 
Then  she  rose,  and  they  stood  for  a  moment  alone  and 
in  silence,  while  a  sense  of  measureless  content  over- 
flowed Anna's  spirit,  and  for  an  instant  made  time  and 
space  and  human  relations  as  if  they  were  not.  So  strong 
upon  her  was  the  sense  of  uplift  from  the  contact  with 
the  spirit  of  Gregory.  She  hardly  knew  at  first  that  the 
incredible  had  happened.  John  Gregory  had  taken  her 
hand  in  his,  with  reverent  gentleness,  for  some  seconds. 
He  was  asking  her  if  he  had  been  able  to  help  her  in 
any  wise,  and  asking  it  as  if  he  cared  very  much.  She 
said  "  yes,"  quite  simply,  and  turned  to  go.  Frieda 
was  coming  back,  and  they  were  lingering  over  long. 
Slowly  they  descended  the  rugged  path  before  them,  for 
a  strange  trepidation  had  come  over  Anna,  —  a  vague, 
new,  disturbing  joy. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

What  went  ye  out  into  the  wilderness  for  to  see  ?  .  .  .  A  man  clothed  in 
soft  raiment  ?  Behold,  they  which  are  gorgeously  apparelled,  and  live  delicately, 
are  in  kings'  courts.  — St.    Luke's   Gospel. 

Instead  of  the  masterly  good  humour,  and  sense  of  power,  and  fertility  of  re- 
source in  himself;  instead  of  those  strong  and  learned  hands,  those  piercing  and 
learned  eyes,  that  supple  body,  and  that  mighty  and  prevailing  heart,  which  the 
father  had,  whom  nature  loved  and  feared,  whom  snow  and  rain,  water  and  land, 
beast  and  fish,  seemed  all  to  know  and  to  serve,  we  have  now  a  puny,  protected 
person,  guarded  by  walls  and  curtains,  stoves  and  down-beds,  coaches,  and  men- 
servants  and  women-servants  from  the  earth  and  the  sky.  —  R.   W.  Emerson. 

The  spring  passed  in  Fraternia,  and  the  summer. 
Not  again  did  John  Gregory  and  Anna  come  into  direct 
personal  communication.  They  went  indeed  their  sev- 
eral ways  with  a  steadier  avoidance  of  this  than  before, 
from  an  undefined,  but  instinctive,  sense  of  danger. 
Nevertheless,  the  fact  that  they  breathed  the  same  air 
and  shared  the  same  lot  in  life  sufficed  to  yield  in  the 
heart  of  each  an  unfailing  spring  of  contentment  ;  while 
now  and  again  it  would  happen  that  Anna,  in  her  school- 
room or  cottage,  and  Gregory,  at  his  work,  lifting  their 
eyes  at  a  footstep  or  a  shadow,  would  be  aware  that  the 
other  had  drawn  near  and  passed  by,  and  contentment 
would  give  place  to  nameless  joy. 

The  poetic  impulse  which  Anna  had  inherited  from 
both  parents,  but  the  expression  of  which  had  been 
stifled  bv  the  deadening  of  her  high  desires  which  life  in 
Fulham  had  brought,  now  developed  unchecked.  Many 
influences  promoted  this  development :  her  clear  child- 
delight  in  the  rich  life  of  nature  about  her,  the  release 

286 


Night  287 

of  her  long-cabined  spiritual  energy,  and  the  stimulation 
of  her  powers  of  discernment  and  interpretation  by  con- 
tact with  the  strong  intellectual  power  of  Gregory. 

Gregory  was,  in  the  simple  system  of  life  in  Fraternia, 
at  once  prophet,  priest,  and  king;  and  his  most  potent 
influence  over  the  people  was  manifest  in  the  Sunday 
services  and  in  the  evening  lectures  which,  for  lack  of 
a  church,  were  held  in  a  large  empty  room  on  the  upper 
floor  of  the  cotton  mill.  Anna  found  in  these  sermons 
and  lectures  the  strongest  intellectual  and  spiritual  food 
upon  which  she  had  ever  fared,  and  throve  apace,  having 
good  faculty  of  assimilation.  The  verses  which  she 
wrote  at  intervals  from  a  sudden  and  almost  irresistible 
impulsion  were  always,  when  completed,  turned  over  to 
her  husband.  Proud  and  pleased  at  this  new  gift  of 
Anna's,  it  was  Keith's  habit  to  take  them  straightway  to 
Gregory.  Anna  never  knew  this.  She  knew,  however, 
that  her  poetry  found  its  way  into  print,  and  now  and 
then,  she  found,  into  the  hearts  of  sincere  people.  This 
was  new  food  for  unaffected  gladness,  and  she  was 
glad. 

The  summer,  although  its  fierce  continuous  heat  had 
been  hard  to  bear,  was  yet  the  season  par  excellence  for 
Fraternia,  and  peace  and  plenty  reigned  in  the  valley. 
But  with  the  autumn  came  a  change,  gradual  at  first,  but 
later  strongly  accented.  The  wholesome  occupations  of 
the  spring  and  summer  came,  of  necessity,  to  a  stand- 
still. There  was  now  little  vent  for  the  energy  and 
working  force  of  the  people,  while  the  scant  resources 
of  the  narrow  valley  offered  nothing  to  counteract  a  dull 
ennui  which  settled  like  a  palpable  cloud  upon  them.  It 
had  been  a  bad  year  for  all  their  crops ;  the  cotton  crop 
had  been  a  total   failure,  and  the  mill  was  shut  down. 


288  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

This  threw  nearly  fifty  of  the  little  community  into  en- 
forced idleness,  and  a  smouldering  resentment  was  bred 
by  the  discovery  that  there  had  never  been  a  profit,  but 
rather  a  sustained  loss,  on  the  output  of  the  mill  by  rea- 
son of  Gregory's  scruple  against  selling  at  any  advance 
beyond  the  bare  cost  of  production.  This  principle 
might  have  a  fine  and  lofty  sound  from  the  lips  of  an 
orator,  speaking  on  broad,  general  lines ;  but  the  hard 
business  sense  of  average  men  and  women  rebelled 
against  the  concrete  results  of  its  application  to  their 
own   isolated  case. 

"  If  other  people  did  the  same,  it  might  work.  For 
one  manufactory  alone  to  attempt  it  is  simply  commer- 
cial suicide,"  they  said  to  each  other,  and  with  justice. 

It  became  known,  moreover,  throughout  the  com- 
munity, that  a  heavy  mortgage  had  been  placed  on  the 
land,  held  by  a  rich  cotton  planter  in  South  Carolina, 
and  that  a  wide  chasm  yet  intervened  between  their 
present  condition  and  that  of  self-support.  A  more 
serious  disappointment  and  a  more  immediate  difficulty, 
however,  lay  in  the  inadequacy  of  their  food  products 
to  the  needs  of  the  people,  and  the  consequent  demand 
for  ready  money  wherewith  to  buy  the  necessities  of  life. 

The  fare,  hitherto  of  the  simplest,  was  gradually  made 
coarser  and  less  palatable,  since  better  could  not  be. 
Winter  was  coming  on ;  open-air  life  had  become  im- 
possible ;  fierce  winds  coming  down  through  the  gorge 
swept  the  valley,  and  scattered  the  foliage  of  the  forest, 
while  a  grey  and  sullen  sky  hung  over,  and  every  day 
brought  chilly  rains.  There  was  some  sickness,  of  a 
mild  nature,  but  it  emphasized  the  discomfort  and  in- 
conveniences of  the  homes.  The  prospect  for  the  com- 
ing months  in  Fraternia  grew  grim.      The  enthusiasm 


Night  289 

of  novelty  had  tided  the  little  community  over  the  two 
preceding  winters,  but  some  stronger  upholding  must 
evidently  now  be  interposed;  for  the  people  openly  mur- 
mured, and  began  to  say  to  each  other  sullenly,  as  once 
another  company,  «  Were  we  brought  out  into  this  wil- 
derness to  die  ?     As  for  this  food,  our  soul  loathes  it." 

Keenly  conscious  of  the  criticism  of  which  he  was 
now  the  subject,  Gregory  withdrew  proudly  more  and 
more  within  himself,  and  touched  less  and  less  familiarly 
the  life  of  those  about  him.  It  was  well  known  that  he 
deprived  himself  of  all  better  fare  than  coarse  bread  and 
the  water  from  the  spring,  that  he  had  unhesitatingly 
devoted  his  last  dollar  to  the  enterprise  so  near  his  heart, 
and  the  patience  and  courage  of  the  man  were  unfailing. 
But  what  of  that  ?  It  was  his  own  enterprise,  with 
which  he  must  stand  or  fall.  Why  should  he  not  risk 
everything  and  bear  everything  ?  For  the  rest  it  was 
different.  They,  too,  had  given  their  money,  and 
they  had  left  their  ceiled  houses  and  their  goodly  flesh- 
pots  and  their  pleasant  social  commerce  to  further  his 
project !     They  at  least  expected  Christian  food  ! 

Crossing  the  bridge  from  the  library,  on  a  raw  after- 
noon late  in  November,  Anna  Burgess  met  a  woman  of 
her  own  age,  a  woman  of  cheerful,  sensible  tempera- 
ment and  habit,  the  wife  of  the  architect,  whom  she  had 
known  in  Burlington.  The  husband,  George  Hanson, 
had  surrendered  with  unconditional  devotion  to  Greg- 
ory's teaching,  and  the  wife,  in  loyal  sympathy,  although 
herself  by  no  means  an  idealist,  had  gathered  her  little 
brood  of  children  and  a  few  household  treasures  together, 
and  had  come  to  Fraternia  with  him. 

As  she  approached  the  bridge,  Mrs.  Hanson,  holding 
up  her  wet  skirts  with  both  hands,  cried  to  Anna: 


u 


290  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  Oh,  how  I  hate  this  red  mud  !  Don't  you  ?  It 
seems  to  me  I  could  stand  it  better  if  it  were  not  this 
horrid  colour.  One  can  never  get  away  from  it,  or  lose 
sight  of  it." 

Anna,  who  thus  far,  with  only  a  few  others,  still  kept 
heart  and  courage  unbroken  through  this  gloomy  season, 
replied  cheerfully  that  she  rather  liked  the  colour. 

Mrs.  Hanson  gave  a  mournful  sigh. 

"You  like  Fraternia  anyway,  don't  you,  Sister  Be- 
nigna  ?      You  always  did  ?  " 

Anna  smiled  at  the  naivete  of  the  question,  and  as- 
sented. 

"  I  must  like  what  I  have  chosen  above  all  other 
things." 

"  Well,  I  confess  I  never  did  like  it,  and  I  never  shall. 
Oh,  it  will  do  very  well  for  a  summer  vacation  if  one 
could  be  sure  of  getting  safe  home  at  the  end.  But  as 
for  a  life  like  this  !  and  when  it  comes  to  bringing  up 
children  here  !  —  "  and  Mrs.  Hanson's  voice  broke  into 
a  suppressed  sob. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Anna,  gently. 

"  Oh,  Sister  Benigna !  "  cried  the  other,  letting  loose 
the  floodgates  of  her  tears,  while  they  still  stood  on  the 
bridge  in  the  piercing  rain,  "  I  never  was  so  homesick 
in  my  life  !  When  I  hear  my  children  asking  if  they 
are  not  going  home  to  see  grandma  pretty  soon,  it  just 
breaks  my  heart.  They  have  no  appetite  for  this  hard 
meat  and  coarse  bread,  and  they  look  so  white  and  thin, 
and  plead  so  for  a  good  old-fashioned  turkey  dinner ! 
I  have  a  little  money  of  my  own,  and  I  would  spend 
every  cent  of  it  for  better  food  for  them,  but  Mr.  Han- 
son, he  says  that  would  be  unjust  to  the  rest  who  can- 
not have  such  things,  and  that  all  must  share  alike.      He 


Night  29I 

says  it  would  cost  a  hundred  dollars  to  give  one  such 
dinner  as  the  children  want  to  the  whole  village." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  true,"  said  Anna,  seriously ;  «  and 
then  it  would  only  be  harder  to  come  back " 

"To  prison  fare,"  Mrs.  Hanson  interjected  with 
unconcealed  bitterness.  "Well,  all  I  have  to  say  is 
that,  if  this  is  cooperation,  I've  had  all  I  want  of  it.  As 
for  '  the  brotherhood  of  man,'  I  wish  I  may  never  hear 
of  it  again  as  long  as  I  live  !  I  believe  we  have  some 
duties  to  ourselves." 

With  this  she  passed  slowly  on,  and  Anna  hastened 
homeward,  a  deep  pang  in  her  heart. 

Entering  her  own  house,  she  found  Keith,  pale  and 
dispirited,  leaning  with  outstretched  hands  over  the  fire 
in  an  attitude  unpleasantly  suggestive  of  decrepitude  and 
want.  He  looked  up  as  Anna  came  in,  and  smiled 
faintly. 

"  I  think  I  have  taken  a  fresh  cold,"  he  said  hoarsely ; 

"  this  climate  is  lovely  half  the  year,  but  the  other  half " 

and  he  left  the  sentence  unfinished,  coughing  sharply. 

Anna  sat  down  by  the  hearth  and  removed  her  mud- 
sodden  shoes,  afterward  hastening  to  prepare  such  scanty 
remedies  for  Keith  as  the  cabin  afforded.  There  was  a 
dispensary  down  at  the  mill.  She  would  go  down  for 
medicine  as  soon  as  she  had  made  him  comfortable. 
On  the  surface  of  her  mind  lay  the  habit  of  sympathy 
and  care  for  her  husband's  fragile  health,  but  in  the 
depth  below  was  a  sense  she  could  not  have  formulated 
to  herself  of  resentment  at  his  lack  of  courage  and  forti- 
tude. For  Keith,  although  too  finely  courteous  to  share 
in  the  open  murmuring  of  the  people,  was  himself  in 
the  full  swing  of  reaction  from  the  comparative  enthusi- 
asm which  he  had  felt  six  months  ago.      The  fall  weather 


292  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

had  brought  on  ague,  which,  added  to  his  chronic  physi- 
cal weakness^  made  him  altogether  wretched  ;  and  while 
he  punctiliously  avoided  contributing  to  the  public  dis- 
content, Anna  perceived  and  understood  perfectly  his 
weariness  with  the  enterprise.  For  the  first  time  in 
their  married  life  his  patience  and  sweetness  of  temper 
failed  ;  he  had  grown  irritable,  and  fretted  at  small  in- 
conveniences in  a  way  which  chafed  Anna's  hardier 
spirit  indescribably. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Keith,  you  are  so  miserable  to- 
day," Anna  said  now,  with  half-mechanical  commisera- 
tion. It  chanced  that,  as  she  had  come  on  her  way 
home  from  the  little  conversation  with  Mrs.  Hanson, 
a  new  sympathy  had  taken  possession  of  her  for  the 
lonely  man  upon  whom  fell  the  full  burden  of  all  this 
reaction,  but  who  bore  it  with  such  unflinching  patience, 
albeit  so  silently.  Almost  inevitably,  her  mind  being 
thus  absorbed,  the  sympathy  with  Keith  in  his  familiar 
ailments  and  complaints  was  rendered  perfunctory  for  the 
time,  and  by  comparison  his  weakness  wore  to  her  some 
complexion  of  unmanliness. 

Perhaps  Keith  discerned  a  shade  of  coldness  in  her 
tone,  and  was  stirred  by  it. 

"  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know,"  he  said  with  significant 
emphasis,  "  how  long  I  can  stand  this  condition  of 
things.  You  must  see,  Anna,  that  I  am  losing  ground 
from  day  to  day.  Look  at  my  hands  !  "  and  he  held 
out  his  left  hand  to  her,  clammy  and  cold,  for  all  the 
yellow  blaze,  wasted  and  thin  even  to  emaciation. 

Anna  took  the  hand  in  hers,  and  caressed  it  with 
womanly  gentleness,  murmuring  that  it  was  too  bad, 
and  something  must  be  done  ;  he  certainly  was  not  prop- 
erly nourished. 


Night  293 

"  Why,  Anna,"  the  poor  fellow  cried,  warmed  by  her 
compassion,  "I  would  give  all  my  'incomes  from  dream- 
land,' all  the  fine-spun  theories  of  economic  religion  and 
social  salvation  that  Gregory  or  any  other  idealist  ever 
dreamed  of,  to  be  for  just  one  day  in  our  own  dear  old 
library,  warmed  all  through,  floor  warm,  walls  warm  — 
everything,  you  know  ;  to  see  you,  beautifully  dressed 
again,  at  your  own  table,  with  its  silver  and  damask;  to 
have  the  service  we  always  had  ;  and  once,  just  once, 
Anna  —  to  have  all  the  hot  water  I  want  for  a  bath  !  " 

Anna  smiled,  but  forebore  to  speak.  The  echo  of 
Mrs.  Hanson's  wail  was  almost  too  much  for  her,  and 
yet  she  pitied  and  understood.  Pioneers  must  be  made 
of  sterner  stuff,  that  was  all ;  men  who,  like  Emerson's 
genius,  should  "  learn  to  eat  their  meals  standing,  and  to 
relish  the  taste  of  fair  water  and  black  bread."  Were 
there  such  men  ?  She  knew  one.  She  almost  began  to 
doubt  if  there  were  any  more.  A  few  moments  later 
she  brought  Keith  a  tray  containing  tea  and  toast,  served 
with  such  little  elegance  as  was  possible,  and  with  the 
daintiness  of  shining  linen  and  silver. 

"  We  must  find  a  way  for  you  to  spend  the  winter 
in  a  different  climate,"  she  said,  as  she  stood  beside  him. 
She  spoke  very  kindly,  but  with  the  inward  sense  of  con- 
cession as  of  the  stronger  to  the  weaker.  uYou  cer- 
tainly cannot  remain  here  if  this  ague  continues." 

Keith  watched  her  gratefully,  as  she  prepared  to  go 
out  again,  sure  of  some  effective  help  when  her  strong 
determination  was  enlisted.  The  last  six  months  had 
revealed  his  wife  to  him  as  six  years  had  not  done 
before.  As  she  was  about  leaving,  he  said  thought- 
fully :  — 

"  Anna,  I  am  not  the  only  one  to  be  anxious  about. 


294  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

Perhaps  you  do  not  know  it  fully,  but  the  whole  scheme 
of  Fraternia  is  on  the  edge  of  collapse." 

"  How  do  you  mean,  dear  ?  "   she  asked,  alarmed. 

"  Through  lack  of  funds.  He  says  very  little,  but  I 
can  see  that  Gregory  has  practically  reached  the  end  of 
his  resources  and  expectations." 

Anna's  face  showed  her  great  concern. 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  so  bad,"  she  answered. 
"Oh,  Keith,  would  you  not  be  willing  to  help  out  a 
little  more  ?  I  know  you  have  been  wonderfully  gen- 
erous, but  some  one  must  come  up  to  the  point  of  real 
sacrifice  and  save  the  day.  You  could  sell  the  Mill 
Street  property,  you  know  ?  "  and  the  timid  tone  of  her 
final  question  contrasted  strangely  with  that  in  which 
she  had  begun  speaking. 

It  was  the  expression  of  Keith's  face  which  had 
dashed  Anna's  confidence.  She  had  never  seen  him 
look  so  much  like  his  mother  as  when  he  replied. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  shall  have  to  stand  my  ground,"  he 
said,  "  and  abide  by  the  terms  I  first  proposed.  My 
mother's  estate  is  not  to  be  sacrificed  for  this  doubtful 
experiment.  More  than  ever  before  I  feel  the  prob- 
lematic nature  of  Gregory's  scheme.  We  must  provide 
for  our  own  future  as  well  as  for  his  present  crisis." 

It  was  hard,  Anna  felt,  as  she  started  out  again  alone 
into  the  wind  and  rain,  not  to  reflect  that,  perhaps,  the 
sooner  the  experiment  proved  a  failure  the  better  Keith 
would  be  satisfied.  She  struggled  against  a  rising  sense 
of  anger  which  the  separation  of  their  interest  from 
Gregory's  gave  her,  at  the  characteristic  caution,  the 
irritating  prudence,  the  old  familiar  inflexibility,  so  like 
his  mother.  Keith's  decision  chafed  her  all  the  more 
because  something  warned  her,  in  her  own  despite,  that 


Night  295 

he  was  after  all  justified  in  it.  But  the  contrast  between 
his  softness  of  yielding  toward  his  own  desires  for  lux- 
ury, and  the  hardness  of  his  withholding  from  the  bare 
needs  of  another,  came  just  then  into  unfortunate  juxta- 
position. 

The  attitude  of  Keith  toward  Gregory  was  complex 
and  peculiar.  When  in  the  immediate  presence  of  this 
man  he  was  brought  under  his  personal  influence  to  a 
degree  which  even  Anna  often  found  surprising.  Greg- 
ory's intensely  masculine  and  forceful  nature  appeared 
to  exert  an  almost  irresistible  control  over  the  younaer 
man  so  long  as  they  were  together.  As  soon,  however 
as  Keith  was  removed  from  that  immediate  influence' 
he  reverted  at  once  to  an  attitude  not  only  critical 
toward  Gregory,  but  at  times,  and  as  if  instinctively 
antagonistic.  J 

Anna  went  on  her  way  down  the  valley  to  the  cot- 
ton mill  with  a  sore  and  heavy  heart.  On  other  days 
she  could  rejoice  even  in  a  leaden  sky,  in  the  muddy, 
sullen  stream,  in  the  stripped  branches  of  the  forest ;  but 
to-night,  for  twilight  was  falling  now,  all  seemed  clothed 
in  that  oppressive  ugliness  of  Tennyson's  picture:  — 

"  When  the  rotten  woodland  drips, 
And  the  leaf  is  stamped  in  clay." 

Reaching  the  mill,  dark  and  silent  otherwise,  she  noted 
a  light  in  Gregory's  office  and  the  sound  of  voices  but 
the  door  was  closed.  She  passed  through  the  corridor 
to  the  small  room  beyond  which  was  used  as  a  dispen- 
sary. Pushing  open  the  door  she  found  the  room  empty  • 
the  young  man  whose  charge  it  was  seemed  to  have' 
betaken  himself  otherwhere  over  early.  However 
Anna's  knowledge  of  drugs  was  not  inconsiderable,  and 


296  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

in  this  case  she  knew  precisely  what  Keith  needed 
and  where  to  find  it.  So  she  proceeded  without  delay 
to  place  on  the  small  polished  counter  which  stretched 
across  the  narrow  room,  the  necessary  ingredients  for 
a  certain  powder,  and  then  carefully  mixed  these  in  the 
proportion  called  for  bv  her  simple  prescription.  While 
she  was  thus  occupied  she  noticed  with  a  sense  of  dis- 
comfort that  the  voices  in  the  office,  only  divided  from 
her  now  by  a  thin  partition,  grew  louder  and  took  on  a 
disagreeable  quality.  Presently  the  door  of  the  office 
was  opened,  and  some  one  hastened  from  the  building 
in  evident  impatience,  leaving  the  door  wide  open. 
There  was  complete  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then 
Anna  heard  John  Gregory  speak.  She  could  not  fail 
to  hear  every  word,  although  his  voice  was  not  raised, 
and  its  wonted  quietness  and  courtesy  were  unchanged. 

"  You  will  bear  me  witness,  nevertheless,  Mr.  Han- 
son," he  said,  "  that  I  never  promised  an  easy  life  for 
those  who  came  with  me  to  Fraternia.  I  declared 
plainly  that  simplicity  and  poverty  and  roughness  were 
to  be  accepted  as  necessary  conditions." 

"  That  is  all  very  well,"  a  voice  replied,  which  Anna 
recognized  as  that  of  the  Burlington  architect,  whose 
wife  had  evidently  been  working  upon  him  ;  "  but 
when  simplicity  means  starvation  for  delicate  women 
and  children,  and  poverty  begins  to  look  like  bank- 
ruptcy, the  situation  strikes  me  as  pretty  serious.  All 
I  have  to  say  is,"  and  the  man's  voice  rose  to  a  pitch 
of  high  excitement,  "  you  are  the  dictator  here,  and 
you  are  responsible  ;  you've  got  us  into  this  scrape,  Mr. 
Gregory,  by  working  upon  our  emotions,  and  all  that, 
and  now  you've  got  to  get  us  out  of  it,  somehow  !  "  and 
with    these   words    Anna    heard   the   speaker    leave    the 


Night  297 

office  with  rapid  steps,  and   a  moment  after  the  outer 
door  of  the  mill  closed  upon  him. 

Anna  had  dropped  the  powders  which  she  was  divid- 
ing now  into  their  papers,  and  had  started  to  go  to  the 
door  and  close  it  that  she  might  hear  no  more;  but 
before  she  could  do  this  a  step  in  the  corridor  which 
she  knew  sent  her  back  to  her  place  with  a  beating 
heart,  and  in  another  instant  John  Gregory  stood  in 
the  doorway. 

Anna  had  never  seen  his  face  changed  by  any  mental 
agitation,  nor  was  it  now,  save  for  a  touch  of  weariness 
and  an  unwonted  pallor.  There  was  a  deep,  sunk  glow 
in  his  eyes,  which,  together  with  the  careless  sweep  of 
the  grey  hair  flung  off  his  forehead,  recalled  with  pecul- 
iar emphasis  the  leonine  effect  Anna  had  often  noticed. 
The  habitual  grave  composure  of  his  manner  was  in  no 
way  disturbed  ;  and  although  he  could  not  have  known 
of  her  presence  in  the  dispensary,  it  did  not  seem  to 
cause  him  surprise. 

"Is  some  one  ill  at  your  house?"  he  asked  with 
evident  concern  but  characteristic  abruptness.  He  was 
one  of  those  few  persons  who  do  not  find  it  necessary 
to  explain  what  is  self-evident. 

"  Mr.  Burgess  is  not  very  well,"  Anna  replied,  hesi- 
tating somewhat,  unwilling  to  strike  another  dart  into 
the  soreness  of  his  spirit,  which  she  felt  distinctly,  for 
all  his  outward  firmness. 

"I  fear,"  Gregory  said  thoughtfully,  "that  Mr.  Bur- 
gess ought  not  to  remain  in  Fraternia  this  winter.  I  am 
very  much  afraid  that  his  health  will  suffer.  Both  of 
you  deserve  a  little  change,"  he  continued,  with  a  slight 
smile,  the  pathos  of  which  Anna  felt  sharply.  «  Fraternia 
is  not  so  pleasant  at   this  time  of  year.      Why  do  you 


298  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

not  go  North  for  a  few  months  ?  You  would  come  back 
to  us  ill  the  spring  —  perhaps?  " 

The  apparent  carelessness  which  he  wished  to  convey 
to  this  question  contrasted  strangely  with  the  piercing 
anxiety  oi  the  look  with  which  Gregory's  eyes  searched 
Anna's  face.  She  understood  the  instinctive  desire  to 
forestall  another  attack,  to  take  for  granted  an  impend- 
ing blow. 

Quietly  working  at  her  powders,  laughing  a  little,  by 
sheer  effort  of  will,  since  tears  were  near  the  surface,  she 
replied  :  — 

"  I  could  not  be  spared,  Mr.  Gregory,  this  winter.  I 
see  you  are  a  little  disposed  to  undervalue  my  services. 
There  are  several  cases  of  sickness  now,  and  I  am  vain 
enough  to  think  I  am  needed.  Besides,  you  know,  I 
love  Fraternia.      I  do  not  want  to  go  away  from  home." 

The  minor  arts  of  coquetry  were  all  unknown  and 
foreign  to  Anna,  but  the  genius  of  her  woman's  nature 
and  intuition  was  thrown  into  the  last  sentence  with 
full  effect. 

The  strong  spirit  of  Gregory,  which  could  meet  the 
assaults  and  buffets  of  reproach  and  detraction  without 
shrinking,  and  which  would  have  rejected  express  sym- 
pathy, was  mastered  for  a  minute  by  the  delicate  com- 
prehension and  implied  fidelity  of  Anna's  words. 

She  knew  better  than  to  see  the  momentary  suspicion 
of  dimness  in  his  eyes,  or  to  note  the  silence  which  for 
a  little  space  he  did  not  care  to  break.  When  at  last 
he  spoke,  it  was  to  ask,  in  a  wholly  matter-of-fact 
manner  :  — 

"  Have  I  not  heard  that  Mr.  Burgess  was  a  particu- 
larly successful  public  speaker  ? "  Anna  looked  up 
quickly  then. 


Night  299 

"  You  may  have  heard  it,  for  I  am  sure  it  is  true," 
she  said.  Another  pause  for  reflection,  and  then  Greg- 
ory said  :  — 

"It  is  becoming  urgently  necessary  that  the  purpose 
and  future  of  Fraternia  should  be  promoted  by  some 
one  capable  of  going  about,  particularly  in  the  cities, 
and  presenting  our  aims  publicly  —  before  audiences  of 
people." 

Anna  had  gathered  up  her  powders  now  and  put 
them  in  her  pocket  and  stood  ready  to  go  but  she 
stopped,  and  her  face  kindled  with  swift  recognition 
and  welcome  of  the  thought  in  Gregory's  mind. 

"And  you  have  thought  that  A4r.  Burgess  might  do 
this,  and  so  still  serve  the  cause  and  yet  do  it  for  a 
while  under  easier  conditions  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Mr. 
Gregory,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  glad  I  should  be  if  this 
plan  could  be  carried  out.  I  am  really  a  little  anxious 
about  my  husband.  I  am  sure  this  would  work  well  for 
every  one,  and  it  might  solve  several  problems  at  once." 

He  smiled,  a  little  sadly,  at  her  confident  eagerness, 
said  they  must  consider  it  seriously,  and  then  stood 
aside  to  let  her  pass  out  and  go  home.  It  was  not 
necessary  for  him  to  say,  as  he  bade  her  good  night,  that 
he  wished  it  were  expedient  for  him  to  walk  home  with 
her.  She  understood  his  theory  of  what  was  wise  for 
himself  in  such  matters.  She  approved  it.  Neverthe- 
less, she  found  it  hard  to  leave  him  alone  just  then  in 
the  deserted  mill.  Half-way  back  she  met  Everett, 
plodding  through  the  mud,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  whistling,  to  keep  his  spirits  up,  she  fancied. 

"  Be  extra  good  to  Mr.  Gregory  to-night,"  she  said, 
womanlike,  unable  to  resist  the  longing  to  help,  as  he 
paused   a  moment. 


300  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked,  frowning ;  "  have  they  been  at 
him  again  ?  " 

Anna  nodded  and  passed  on,  afraid  to  say  more. 

"Fools!"  he  murmured  between  his  teeth,  and 
plunged  on   against    the  wind. 

But  Anna  went  home  with  a  beatific  vision  to  soothe 
her  spirit,  of  Keith  comfortable  at  last  in  a  good  hotel, 
with  menus  and  waiters,  bells  and  bathrooms,  in  an 
infinite  series. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

"  Lo,  fcol,"  he  said,  "ye  talk 
Fool's  treason  ;  is  the  king  thy  brother  fool  ?  " 
Then  little  Dagonet  clapt  his  hands  and  shrill' d, 
"  Ay,  ay,  my  brother  fool,  the  king  of  fools  ! 
Conceits  himself  as  God  that  he  can  make 
Figs  out  of  thistles,  silk  from  bristles,  milk 
From  burning  spurge,  honey  from  hornet  combs, 
And  men  from  beasts —  Long  live  the  King  of  fools  !  " 

—  Tennyson. 

But  yours  the  cold  heart  and  the  murderous  tongue, 
The  wintry  soul  that  hates  to  hear  a  song, 
The  close-shut  fist,  the  mean  and  measuring  eye, 

And  all  the  little  poisoned  ways  of  wrong. 

—  The  Rubaiyat. 

Everett  had  improvised  a  studio  in  a  low  loft  over 
the  bachelors'  quarters,  contiguous  to  the  cabin  which  he 
and  Gregory  shared. 

It  was  necessary,  he  said,  for  him  to  get  down  to 
hard  work  now.  That  hedging  and  ditching  nonsense 
was  great  sport  for  a  man's  holidays,  but  he  had  no 
more  time  to  play  ;  he  must  paint.  The  work  he  had 
produced  in  Fulham  had  not  been,  often,  especially  sal- 
able or  popular  in  its  character,  a  certain  mystic  quality 
pervading  it  not  readily  understood  by  casual  observers. 
All  that,  he  declared,  was  now  to  be  rigidly  excluded 
from  his  painting  ;  he  should  paint  to  sell —  cheap,  pretty 
things,  picturesque,  palpable.  With  this  purpose  he 
had  set  to  work  with  a  will,  and  by  February  had  a  few 
hundred  dollars  to  turn  over  to  the  treasury  as  the  fruit 

301 


3<D2  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

of  his  industry.  His  pictures  were  sold  in  the  North 
through   Keith   Burgess  as   intermediary. 

He  was  hard  at  work  in  the  studio  at  nine  o'clock  on 
a  night  in  February,  laying  in  the  outline  for  a  bit  of  the 
valley  which  he  declared  he  could  paint  now  with  his 
eyes  shut,  he  had  done  it  so  often,  having  found  it  "  a 
good  seller,"  when  he  heard  Gregory's  step  on  the  stairs. 
That  the  boy  had  just  brought  the  mail  up  from  Spald- 
ing Everett  knew,  having  heard  the  horse  galloping  over 
the  bridge,  and  stopping  before  the  house. 

Gregory  came  in  now  with  several  letters  in  his  hand, 
one  open.  He  did  not  speak  at  first,  and  Everett  let 
him  walk  up  and  down  the  place  undisturbed,  seeing 
that  he  was  peculiarly  perplexed,  probably  by  the  open 
letter,  which  Everett  noticed  was  in  Keith  Burgess's 
handwriting.  After  a  few  moments  he  remarked  slowly, 
but  with  an  unusually  incisive  quality  in  his  tone  :  — 

"  Burgess  is  a  singularly  prudent  little  man.  Did  it 
ever  strike  you  so  ?  " 

"  He  has  some  capacity,  however,  for  the  opposite 
quality."  Everett  threw  out  this  remark  with  no  mani- 
festation of  especial  interest,  and  it  seemed  to  pass  unno- 
ticed. 

"  Having  it  in  his  power,"  Gregory  continued,  with 
the  same  incisive  deliberation,  "  to  extricate  us  from  our 
whole  present  difficulty  himself,  with  the  utmost  ease, 
he  yet  jogs  about  the  country  after  a  comfortable  fash- 
ion, presenting  the  subject  publicly  as  occasion  ofFers, 
and  sends  me  back  such  letters  as  this." 

Lifting  the  sheet  in  his  hand,  Gregory  read  from  it :  — 

"  I  held  a  meeting  last  night  in  Grand  Rapids,  to 
which  I  have  been  working  up  carefully  for  over  a  week 
through   the   press,  etc.      The  attendance  was   fair,  and 


Night  J03 

the  people  listened  well.  I  regret,  however,  to  be 
obliged  to  report  that  the  practical  results  of  the  meet- 
ing were  not  all  that  we  could  have  wished-"  and 
dropping  the  letter,  Gregory  added  :  — 

"And  so  on,  copiously,  through  nearly  four  pages  of 
matchless  amb.guity  and  polite  phrases,  which  could  all 
have  been  condensed  to  the  usual  sum  total  of  his  re- 
ports ;   thus  far,  nothing  !  " 

"Still,  Mr.  Gregory,  we  must  remember  that  he  did 
pretty  well  for  the  first  few  weeks." 

'Yes,"  said  Gregory,  nodding  a  short  assent,  "while 
he  was  covering  the  field  which  was  readv  for  harvest  - 
seeing  the  men  already  committed  to  the  cause  We 
can  evidently  expect  nothing  more  from  him.  '  What 
Kind  of  a  speaker  is  he,  Everett  ?  " 

"Good    really   very  good  as  a  special  pleader.      He 
had  very  fair  success  when  he  was  missionary  secretary  " 
I  wonder  at   it,"   murmured    Gregory,-  «a   miJd 
prudent   little  man  like  that  with  his  perpetual  fears  and' 
scruples;   I  cannot  fancy  his  ever  letting  himself  go  " 

Everett,  unwontedly  sober  and  silent,  worked'  on 
Gregory  paced  the  room  for  a  little  while.  He  wanted 
to  ask  Everett  how  Keith's  marriage  with  a  woman  like 
Anna  could  ever  have  come  about,  but  he  could  no' 
bring  himself  to  frame  the  question,  and  presently  left 
the  studio.  } 

Hanging  about  the  door  below,  Gregory  found  Barna- 
ba    Rosenblatt,  apparently  waiting  to  speak  with  him. 
Hello!       said   Gregory,  not   unkindly,  but   shortly. 
Do  you  want  me  ?  "  y 

"Well  shust  a  minit,  if  Herr  Gregory  vas  not  too 
busy,  and  the  little  ]GW  shuffled  along  by  Gregory's 
side  until  they  reached  the  door  of  the  cabin 


304  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

Gregory  brought  his  visitor  in  and  gave  him  a  chair, 
then  stirred  up  a  smouldering  fire  and  threw  on  a  piece 
of  pine,  which,  flaring  up  into  a  sudden  blaze,  made 
other  light  unnecessary.  The  reflection  of  the  yellow 
flames  played  weirdly  over  the  walls,  and  Barnabas 
seemed  unable  to  withdraw  his  eyes  from  the  picture 
above  the  chimney. 

"  Our  lady,"  he  said  simply,  nodding  across  at  Greg- 
ory, and  closing  his  eyes  impressively. 

"Well,  Barnabas,  what  is  it  you  want?"  asked  his  host. 

"  It's  our  lady,"  said  Barnabas,  sniffing  quite  vigor- 
ously, "das  is  it.  How  she  fall  ofF!  "  and  he  shook 
his  head  with  a  slow,  mournful  motion. 

"  Fall  ofF  what  ?  I  do  not  understand,  Barnabas. 
You  are  speaking  of  Sister  Benigna  ?  "  Gregory's  face 
changed. 

"So — so — "  and  the  little  man  nodded  emphati- 
cally. "She's  got  awful  poor  !  Oh,  my  !  Her  bones 
comes  right  through  zu  next.  My  Klcine,  she  say  our 
lady  don't  eat  notin's,  shust  only  leetle,  leetle  milk,  an' 
work,  work,  work,  like  a  holy  angel  everywheres  at  one 
time,  up  an'  down  the  valley  ;  sick  folks  an'  well  folks, 
all  derselbe.  Light  come  all  place  she  come  ! "  and 
Barnabas  relapsed  into  meditative  silence,  having  found 
his  vocabulary  hard  tested  by  this  prolonged  statement. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  Sister  Benigna  is  sick  ?  "  asked 
Gregory,  with  slight  sharpness. 

"  Ja,  ja,  Herr  Gregory ;  she  has  went  home  sick 
heut'  abend  from  the  sew  class  down  to  der  mill. 
When  she  go,  all  go.  Fraternia  ohne  Sister  Benigna," 
and  the  little  man  drew  his  shoulders  quite  up  to  his 
ears  in  a  characteristic  shrug  strongly  expressive  of  a 
thing  unthinkable. 


Night  305 

Gregory  rose,  Barnabas  following  his  example. 

"I  will  go  over  and  inquire,"  he  said,  taking  his  hat, 
and  they  left  the  house  at  once. 

The  night  was  cold,  a  light  fall  of  snow  lay  over  the 
valley,  and  the  stars  glittered  from  a  frosty  sky. 

When  they  reached  the  neighbourhood  of  Anna's  cot- 
tage Gregory  sent  Barnabas  up  to  the  door,  while  he 
waited  at  a  little  distance.  In  a  few  moments  Frieda, 
who  now  shared  Anna's  cabin,  joined  him,  while  Barna- 
bas, with  the  action  of  a  waiting  watch-dog,  humble, 
and  yet  with  a  due  sense  of  responsibility,  hung  about 
near  by.  Frieda's  account  was  reassuring,  as  far  as 
immediate  solicitude  for  Anna  was  concerned ;  she  had 
come  home  ill  from  the  afternoon  sewing  class,  and  had 
a  chill,  headache,  and  fever.  She  was  resting  now,  and 
would  doubtless  be  up  again  in  a  day  or  two. 

"  Nothing  can  keep  her  down,  Mr.  Gregory,"  Frieda 
said  in  conclusion.  "  I  am  not  frightened  just  now,  but 
we  all  see  plainly  that  Sister  Benigna  is  killing  herself 
by  inches.  She  eats  hardly  anything,  and  yet  works  as 
if  there  were  no  limit  to  her  strength.  Sometimes  I 
think  she  is  just  laying  down  her  very  life  for  us  here  in 
Fraternia,  and  we're  not  worth  it,"  and  with  this  Frieda's 
voice  broke  a  little,  and  without  stopping  to  say  more 
she  hurried  back. 

Gregory  bade  Barnabas  good  night  hastily,  and  then, 
instead  of  going  home,  he  walked  rapidly  down  the 
rough  road  to  the  mill,  unlocked  the  door,  and  went  into 
his  office  and  sat  down  at  his  desk.  His  face  had 
changed  strangely  ;  it  had  grown  grey  and  his  lips  were 
tightly  compressed.  He  sat  long  in  motionless  silence, 
thinking  intensely.  Although  he  had  himself  watched 
Anna  with  growing  uneasiness,  the  suggestions  of 
x 


306  A   Woman  of  Yesterday 

Frieda  and  Barnabas  came  upon  him  with  startling  effect. 
He  asked  himself  now  with  unsparing  definiteness 
whether  this  was  indeed  the  final  turn  of  the  wheel  of 
torture  on  which  he  was  bound,  or  whether  he  could 
wait  for  another.  The  conviction  was  upon  him,  stark 
and  stern,  that  in  the  end  he  should  yield  and  seek  the 
one  means  of  escape  which  was  still  open  to  him,  and 
which  he  had  been  holding  off  with  almost  dogged  reso- 
lution. He  recalled  the  shaping  of  events  in  Anna's 
life  during  the  last  {ew  months,  and  his  face  softened. 

Late  in  November,  when  Keith  went  North,  she  had 
accompanied  him,  having  been  sent  for  by  her  sister 
Lucia*.  Their  mother,  Gulielma  Mallison,  upon  whom 
age  and  infirmity  had  increased  heavily,  had  conceived 
a  controlling  desire  to  return  to  her  childhood  home, 
the  Moravian  town  of  Bethlehem,  to  end  her  days. 
Anna  had  visited  Haran  therefore,  and  had  brought  her 
mother  back  to  her  early  home,  establishing  her  there  in 
the  quiet  Widows'  House  in  peace  and  satisfaction. 

At  Christmas,  when  she  returned  alone  to  Fraternia, 
Anna  had  seemed  to  bring  with  her  a  new  infusion  of 
active  and  aggressive  force.  Relieved  of  anxiety  for 
Keith,  whom  she  had  left  in  good  spirits,  and  from  the 
constant  ministration  to  his  comfort,  she  was  now  wholly 
free  to  devote  herself  to  the  common  good.  With  new 
and  contagious  ardour  she  had  thrown  herself  therefore 
into  the  life  of  the  discouraged  little  community,  cheer- 
ing the  faint-hearted  and  rekindling  the  flagging  pur- 
poses of  the  fickle.  She  taught  the  girls  and  women 
quaint  fashions  of  embroidery  and  work  on  linen  which 
she  had  learned  from  her  mother,  and  inspired  them 
with  the  ambition  to  earn  something  with  their  needles, 
thus  dispelling   their  listlessness.      She  seemed  at   times 


Night  307 

to  possess  in  her  own  enthusiasm  and  courage  sufficient 
motive  power  to  energize  them  all ;  she  worked  and 
moved  among  them  as  if  no  less  a  task  had  been  given 
her,  and  with  a  sweetness  and  sympathy  that  never 
failed. 

All  who  watched  her  wondered  at  the  power  in  her, 
and  many  who  had  murmured  hitherto  now  declared 
themselves  ashamed,  and  responded  willingly.  John 
Gregory  marvelled  more  and  more  at  the  qualities  of  brill- 
iant leadership  which  she  now  developed.  Within  him 
a  voice,  which  he  could  not  always  silence,  sometimes 
whispered  that  if  such  a  nature  as  that  which  had  been 
gradually  revealed  to  him  in  Anna  Burgess,  in  its  pleni- 
tude of  power  and  its  greatness  of  purpose,  could  have 
been  allied  to  his  own,  a  movement  far  beyond  what  he 
had  even  dreamed  of  in  Fraternia  might  have  been 
possible. 

But  while  a  certain  reenforcement  of  courage  had 
followed  Anna's  strong  initiative,  and  while  in  some 
respects  the  domestic  conditions  of  the  people  had  been 
improved  and  their  murmurings  for  the  time  partially 
silenced,  the  gravity  of  the  situation  and  of  the  prospects 
for  the  future  as  Gregory  saw  them  remained  unchanged. 
Keith's  mission  had  proved  unproductive,  as  the  letter 
just  received  emphasized  afresh.  Gregory  himself  could 
not  leave  Fraternia  at  this  juncture  without  manifest 
peril.  Only  his  personal  influence  now  availed  to  hold 
together  many  discordant  elements  which  were  very 
actively  at  work  and  arrayed  against  each  other.  From 
no  quarter  could  he  discern  any  hope  of  substantial 
support. 

And  now,  last  of  all,  she  was  laid  low;  worse,  they 
told  him  she  was  laying  down   her  life  in   her  devotion 


308  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

to  his  cause  —  she,  his  one  high-hearted,  intrepid, 
dauntless  ally  !  Bitterly  Gregory  said  to  himself  that 
she  who  had  freely  left  wealth  and  station  was  starving 
and  working  to  her  death  to  save  him  from  defeat,  and 
all  in  vain,  unless —  Should  he  calmly  sit  by  and 
permit  the  sacrifice  ?  Great  of  heart  as  she  was,  all  her 
work  could  not  avail,  nor  his,  unless  aid  of  another 
kind  could  be  found,  and  that  at  once. 

And  it  could  be  found  ;  of  that  he  had  little  doubt. 
To  find  it  he  must,  indeed,  make  a  certain  compromise, 
but  it  was  one  which  involved  only  himself,  his  own  po- 
sition,—  perhaps,  after  all,  only  his  own  pride.  Had  he 
not  himself  preached  against  the  subtle  selfishness  which 
underlies  the  passion  for  individual  perfection  ?  Did  not 
the  common  good  and  the  larger  interests  of  his  cause 
call  for  the  sacrifice  ? 

Gregory  rose  at  last  and  went  to  the  outer  door  of 
the  mill.  It  was  five  o'clock  of  the  February  morning, 
and  off"  to  the  east  a  faint  yellowish  light  was  climbing 
up  the  sky.  The  mill  pond  lay  dead  in  its  stillness 
below  him  ;  the  water  fell  quietly,  stilled  with  ice,  over 
the  dam ;  the  valley  stretched  out  white  and  cold  ;  a 
mile  below  was  the  black  belt  of  the  forest,  and  beyond, 
the  dim  plain,  with  the  stars  shining  over.  It  was  pure 
and  cold  and  pitiless.  In  sky  or  earth  no  sign  of  relent- 
ing, no  suggestion  of  a  gentler  day.  But  Gregory  was 
not  looking  for  signs,  or  reckoning  with  omens,  save 
the  omen  which  had  come  unasked  and  taken  up  its 
abode  in  his  mind.  He  was  thinking,  not  of  the  scene 
before  him,  nor  of  the  sleeping  village  behind,  nor  even 
of  the  outline  of  the  future,  nor  of  Anna  in  her  pain 
and  patience. 

An  old  story  was  repeating  itself  within  him  of  the 


Night  309 

ancient  king  to  whom  the  sibyl  came  bringing  nine 
books,  which,  being  offered,  he  rejected  ;  and  of  how,  in 
the  end,  it  had  been  the  fate  of  the  king  to  desire  the 
three  which  alone  were  left,  and  to  obtain  them  at  a 
threefold  price. 

Presently  the  door  of  the  mill  was  closed,  and  Greg- 
ory returned  to  his  desk.  There  was  sternness  in  his 
face  as  he  set  about  writing  a  letter,  and  self-disdain 
and  humiliation;  but  he  wrote  on,  and  finished  the  letter, 
which  he  signed  and  sealed.  Then,  without  further 
hesitation  or  pause,  he  crossed  the  road  to  the  mill 
stables,  brought  out  and  saddled  his  own  horse,  a  tall 
roan,  fit  to  carry  a  man  of  his  proportions,  mounted  it, 
and  rode  away  down  the  valley  toward  Spalding.  The 
letter  which  he  chose  to  mail  with  his  own  hand  was 
addressed  to  Senator  Ingraham,  and  it  stated  briefly  that 
the  writer  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  his  rejection 
of  the  generous  gift  offered  him  on  a  certain  night  known 
to  them  both  v/as  ill  advised,  and  that  if  the  same  or 
any  part  of  it  were  offered  him  now  for  the  furtherance 
of  his  cooperative  work,  it  would  not  be  refused. 

A  week  passed,  and  Anna,  protesting  that  she  was  as 
well  as  ever,  had  returned  to  her  regular  round  of  cares. 
The  only  change  in  her  appearance  was  a  peculiar 
whiteness  of  the  tints  of  her  skin,  such  that  her  face  at 
times  seemed  actually  to  emit  light.  The  contrast  of 
this  whiteness  of  tint  with  the  masses  of  her  dull,  dark 
hair  and  the  large,  clear  eyes,  full  of  the  changing  lights 
which  lurk  in  hazel  eyes,  gave  her  at  this  time  a  star- 
tling beauty,  startling  because  it  suggested  evanescence. 
Most  marked,  Fraternia  people  said,  was  this  phase  of 
Anna's  appearance  on  a  night  near  the  end  of  another 
week,  when  a  large  company  was  gathered   in   the  hall 


310  A   Woman  of  Yesterday 

over  the  mill  for  an  entertainment.  Anna  had  been 
much  interested  through  the  winter  in  a  series  of 
author's  evenings,  and  this  chanced  to  be  the  occasion 
for  the  closing  programme  of  the  series.  The  subject 
was  Lowell,  and  prose  had  been  read  and  poetry  de- 
claimed; the  changes  rung  on  all,  —  humorous,  pathetic, 
and  patriotic.  The  little  hall  was  full  and  the  audience 
eager  for  the  closing  number,  because  it  was  to  be  given 
by  Anna  herself,  who  had  a  charming  gift  in  rendering 
poetry. 

She  had  chosen  a  number  of  passages  from  the  "  Com- 
memoration Ode,"  and  as  she  stood  on  the  platform  with 
its  dark  crimson  background  and  drapery,  'dressed,  as 
she  was  habitually  when  indoors,  in  white,  her  eyes 
kindling  as  she  spoke  the  noble  words  of  the  noblest 
American  poem,  the  audience  watched  her  face  with  an 
attention  even  closer  than  that  with  which  they  listened 
to  her  voice.  This,  indeed,  showed  a  slight  weakness, 
but  the  eloquence  and  energy  of  her  spirit  subdued  it  to 
a  deeper  pathos,  while  its  impressiveness  was  most 
marked  when  she  reached  the  close  of  the  fifth  strophe, 
every  word  of  which  to  her  meant  John  Gregory  :  — 

"  But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 
When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  never  yield, 

This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 
Limbed  like  the  old,  heroic  breeds, 

*  *  *  * 

Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength  he  needs." 

She  was  half-way  through  the  lines  when  a  striking 
and    incomprehensible    change    passed  over  her.       Her 


Night  3 1 1 

eyes  dilated,  then  drooped,  her  breath  almost  forsook 
her,  and  her  quiet  hands  clasped  each  other  hard.  She 
continued  to  speak,  but  her  voice  had  lost  its  tone  and 
timbre.  Almost  mechanically  she  kept  on  to  the  close 
of  the  part  she  had  selected,  but  those  who  loved  her 
feared  to  see  her  fall  before  the  end.  When  she  reached 
the  room  behind  the  stage,  the  faithful  Frieda  was  wait- 
ing to  receive  her. 

What  had  happened  ?  Was  it  merely  that  Sister 
Benigna  was  still  weak  from  her  illness  ?  As  they 
broke  up,  these  questions  were  repeatedly  asked  among 
the  people.  Some  of  them  called  attention  to  the  fact 
that  while  she  was  speaking  a  stranger  had  tiptoed  into 
the  hall  so  noiselessly  that  only  a  few  persons  had  been 
aware  of  his  coming,  but  he  was  a  man  of  so  singular 
a  physiognomy  and  an  expression  so  repellent  that  a 
vague  connection  was  felt  to  link  Anna's  agitation  with 
his  appearance. 

This  man  was  Oliver  Ingraham. 

Anna,  with  Frieda,  hurrying  out  of  the  mill  alone 
into  the  blackness  of  the  starless  and  stormy  night, 
and  turning  homeward,  heard  steps  approaching,  heavy 
and  hard.  Some  one  passed  them.  Anna  knew  only 
by  the  great  height  and  breadth  of  shoulder,  dimly 
discerned  through  the  dark,  that  it  was  Gregory.  She 
stopped,  and  he  turned,  catching  a  glimpse  of  her  white 
face. 

"  Mr.  Gregory,"  she  said,  "  Oliver  Ingraham  is  here. 
What  can  it  mean  ?  " 

"  Here  already  !  "  he  cried  almost  harshlv.  "  I  have 
only  this  moment  received  a  despatch !  "  and  he  hastened 
forward,  as  if  he  might  yet  interpose  some  obstacle  to 
this  most  unwelcome  arrival. 


312  A  Woman   of  Yesterday 

The  words  in  the  despatch,  crumpled  fiercely  and 
thrust  into  Gregory's  pocket,  were  these  :  — 

"  Mv  son  will  be  the  bearer  of  the  funds  required. 
Trust  you  will  give  him  the  opportunity  he  desires  for 
study  of  social  problems. 

"  Ingraham." 

It  was  the  first  word  of  reply  to  his  letter  which  Greg- 
ory had  received,  and  it  was  a  word  which  made  him 
set  hard  his  teeth  and  groan  like  a  wounded  lion. 

"Perhaps  it  is  fair,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  crossed 
the  bridge ;  "  but  Ingraham's  Nemesis  as  the  price  is  a 
higher  one  than  even  I  expected." 

Above,  in  the  mill  hall,  Oliver  was  mingling  with  the 
people  who  were  in  the  habit  of  remaining  together  for 
an  hour  of  social  interchange  after  the  programme,  on 
these  occasions.  He  quickly  found  his  old  townsman, 
Mr.  Hanson,  who  seemed  more  amazed  than  rejoiced  to 
greet  him  in  Fraternia. 

"Stopped  over,  eh,  to  see  our  village?"  he  asked. 
"  On  your  way  North,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Oliver,  smiling  complacently;  "I 
have  come  straight  from  home.  I  have  a  commission 
for  your  czar  from  my  father,  and  I  rather  look  to  throw- 
ing in  my  fortunes  with  you  folks.  I  want  to  see  how 
this  experiment  works ;  study  it,  you  know,  on  all 
sides.      If  I  like  it,  I  guess  I  shall  stay." 

"  Oh,  really,"  said  Hanson,  a  little  aghast. 

"How  are  you  getting  on,  anyway?"  proceeded 
Oliver,  craftily.  "  Rose-colour  washed  off  yet  ?  Has  it 
been  pretty  idyllic  this  winter  ?  Say,  I  should  think 
catering  for  a  crowd  up  in  this  valley  would  be  quite  a 
job.      Don't  get  salads  and  ices  every  day,  I  take  it." 


Night  313 

Hanson  shook  his  head  impatiently,  longing  to  get 
away  from   the  questioner. 

"  Well,"  said  Oliver,  "  I  suppose  by  this  time  Greg- 
ory the  Great  has  issued  his  edicts  and  made  all  the 
poor  people  rich,  hasn't  he  ?  and  all  the  rich  people 
poor?  That  seems  to  be  the  method  of  evening  up.  I 
don't  wonder  the  poor  fellows  like  it.  Should  think 
they  would." 

"  You  will  know  better  about  us  when  you  have  been 
here  awhile,  Mr.  Ingraham." 

Oliver  nodded  cheerfully.  "  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  I  am 
going  to  take  notes,  you  see.  Perhaps  I'll  write  it  up 
by  and  by,"  and  he  tapped  the  neat  note-book  which 
protruded  from  a  pocket  of  his  coat.  "Are  all  the 
sinners   saints  by  this  time  ?  "    he  added. 

"  Hardly." 

"  Well,  then,  we'll  put  it  the  other  way,"  said  Oliver, 
with  a  peculiar  significance  in  his  high  voice,  "  are  the 
saints  all  sinners  yet  ?  "  The  malicious  leer  with  which 
this  question  was  accompanied  seemed  to  turn  it  into 
a  hateful  insinuation,  which  Hanson,  with  all  his  half- 
suppressed  discontent,  resented  hotly.  He  was  about  to 
make  a  hasty  reply  when  Gregory  came  up  and  spoke 
to  Oliver,  to  whom  he  held  out  his  hand.  His  manner 
was  as  cold  as  could  be  with  decent  courtesy,  and  when 
Oliver  had  shaken  his  hand  he  passed  his  handkerchief 
over  it  with  the  impulse  a  man  has  after  touching  a  slug 
or  a  snake. 

Oliver  noticed  the  gesture,  and  rubbed  his  long  white 
hands  together  reflectively. 


CHAPTER'  XXXIV 

Look  in  my  face  ;   my  name  is  Might-have-been  ; 

I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Farewell ; 

Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead  sea-shell 
Cast  up  thy  Life's  foam-fretted  feet  between; 
Unto  thine  eyes  the  glass  where  that  is  seen 

Which  had  Life's  form  and  Love's,  but  by  my  spell 

Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable, 
Of  ultimate  things  unuttered,  the  frail  screen. 

Mark  me,  how  still  I  am  ! 

—  D.    G.   Rossetti. 

It  was  mid-April  and  the  afternoon  of  a  day  of  per- 
fect weather,  of  summer  rather  than  spring. 

The  hills  around  Fraternia  were  covered  now  in  sheets 
of  flame-colour,  white  and  rose,  from  the  blossoming  of 
the  wild  azalea  and  laurel.  The  air  was  laden  with 
perfume  and  flooded  with  sunshine. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  the  afternoon  school  when 
Anna,  a  company  of  the  children  with  her,  started  to 
climb  the  eastern  hill  which  rose  a  little  beyond  the 
mill  pond,  to  gather  flowers. 

Gregory,  from  the  open  window  of  his  office  in  the 
mill,  watched  the  pretty  troop  as  they  threaded  their 
way  up  the  steep  path  and  were  soon  lost  to  sight  in  the 
woods.  He  heard  them  speak  of  Eagle  Rock  as  the  goal 
of  their  expedition,  —  a  favourite  point  of  view,  less  than 
a  mile  to  walk,  and  nearly  on  the  crest  of  the  hills. 

Anna  was  dressed  in  the  coarse  white  cotton  of  Fra- 
ternia manufacture  which  was  the  usual  dress  of  the  girls 
and  women  of  the  village  in  the  house  and  out  in  dry, 

3»4 


Night  3I5 

warm  weather,  simply  made,  easily  laundered,  cleanly, 
and  becoming.  Her  tall  figure,  the  last  to  disappear  up 
the  woodland  path,  had  attracted  the  eyes  of  another,  as 
well  as  of  John  Gregory. 

Oliver  Ingraham,  in  these  two  months  grown  an  all- 
too-familiar  figure  in  Fraternia,  finding  his  way  stealthily 
and  untiringly  to  every  favourite  nook  and  corner  of  the 
valley,  had  also  watched  the  start  from  some  lurking- 
place.  It  was  half  an  hour  later  when  Gregory  noticed 
him  sauntering  casually  along  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and 
with  an  air  of  indifference  striking  into  the  same  path 
which  Anna  and  the  children  had  taken.  Gregory 
watched  him  a  moment  fixedly,  his  eyebrows  knit  to- 
gether, and  he  bit  his  lip  with  impatience  and  disgust. 
Of  late  Oliver  had  shown  an  ominous  propensity  to 
haunt  Anna,  whose  dislike  of  his  presence  amounted 
well-nigh  to  terror.  More  than  once  Gregory's  watch- 
ful eyes,  which  never  left  Oliver's  movements  long  un- 
noted, had  observed  attempts  on  his  part  to  follow  or  to 
overtake  her,  to  seek  her  out  and  attach  himself  to  her. 
Invariably  Oliver  found  himself  foiled  in  these  attempts, 
although  he  had  no  means  of  attributing  the  interfer- 
ence to  Gregory.  Thus  far  the  intervention  had  been 
accomplished  almost  unnoticeably,  but  none  the  less 
effectively. 

The  afternoon  was  a  busy  one  for  Gregory.  The 
mill,  no  longer  silent  and  deserted,  was  running  now  on 
full  time  ;  and,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  a  majority 
of  the  colonists,  Gregory  had  withdrawn  his  scruples 
against  selling  the  products  of  their  manufacture  at  a 
reasonable  profit.  He  was  finding  it  easier  and  easier 
to  compromise  with  his  initial  scruples.  It  had  also 
become   more   imperative   to   try  to   meet,   in  so  far  as 


3 16  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

was  reasonable,  the  demands  of  the  people,  since  already 
Fraternia  had  suffered  serious  defections.  A  number  of 
substantial  families  had  withdrawn  earlier  in  the  spring, 
among  them  the  Hansons  and  the  Taylors,  who  had 
taken  the  pretty  Fraulein  Frieda  with  them,  to  Anna's 
great  regret.  Others  talked  of  leaving,  and,  in  spite  of 
the  greater  financial  easiness,  criticism  and  jealousy  were 
at  work  in  the  little  company  at  first  so  united.  The 
almost  insuperable  difficulties  attending  the  experiment 
had  now  fully  declared  themselves. 

However,  there  was  plenty  of  work  to  do,  which  was 
a  material  relief.  Gregory  glanced  now  at  the  pile  of 
papers  before  him  on  his  desk,  and  then  once  more 
through  the  window  at  the  figure  of  Oliver,  receding  up 
the  hill.  No,  he  could  not  run  the  risk  of  allowing 
him  to  overtake  and  annoy  Anna.  The  work  must 
wait.  Taking  his  hat,  he  left  the  mill  hastily  ;  but,  in- 
stead of  choosing  the  path  behind  Oliver,  Gregory 
turned  and  went  up  the  valley  a  little  distance,  struck 
through  behind  the  houses,  crossed  a  bit  of  boggy  ground 
which  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  in  this  part  of  the  valley, 
and  so  mounted  the  hill  below  Eagle  Rock  in  a  line  to 
intercept  Oliver  before  he  could  overtake  Anna,  if  such 
were  his  purpose. 

There  was  no  path  up  this  side  of  the  hill,  but  Greg- 
ory found  no  trouble  in  striding  through  the  deep  under- 
brush which  would  have  swamped  the  women  and 
children  completely.  Soon  he  reached  a  point  from 
which  he  commanded  a  sight  of  Eagle  Rock,  and  a 
glance  showed  him  the  fluttering  dresses  of  the  children 
already  on  its  summit.  In  another  moment  he  dashed 
up  on  a  sharp  climb,  for  the  hill  was  very  steep  at  this 
point,  and  reached  the  path  only  a  short  distance  from 


Night  317 

the  base  of  the  rock.  He  looked  up,  but  no  one  was  in 
sight ;  then  down  the  path,  and  in  a  moment  Oliver 
came  into  view  walking  much  more  rapidly  than  fifteen 
minutes  before,  when  he  had  entered  the  woods.  He 
slackened  his  pace  as  he  caught  sight  of  Gregory  slowly 
approaching  down  the  path,  and  sought  to  hide  a  very 
evident  discomfiture  with  his  evil  smile. 

"  You  got  up  here  in  pretty  good  time,  didn't  you, 
Mr.  Gregory  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  reached  him.  "  I  saw 
you,  seems  to  me,  in  your  office  when  I  came  along. 
I've  taken  my  time,  you  see.  A  beautiful  day  for  a 
walk." 

Oliver's  small  green-grey  eyes  twinkled  wickedly  as 
he  spoke  these  apparently  harmless  words,  for  he  saw, 
or  felt,  that  beneath  every  one  of  them  Gregory's  anger, 
roused  at  last,  reached  a  higher  pitch.  Oliver  perfectly 
understood  what  he  was  here  for. 

"  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you,"  said  Gregory,  stormily. 
"You  will  have  to  stop  haunting  the  women  and  chil- 
dren, and  annoying  them  with  your  attentions.  I  speak 
perfectly  plainly,  Mr.  Ingraham;  they  are  not  agreeable 
and  they  must  be  stopped." 

"  You  rule  with  a  rod  of  iron  here,  Gregory,"  said 
Oliver,  his  long  fingers  twining  together;  "what  you 
say  goes.  Still,  you  know,  you  might  go  a  little  too 
far." 

Gregory  did  not  reply,  but  stood  watching  him  as  a 
lion  might  watch  a  reptile. 

"  I  am  willing  to  stay  in  Fraternia,  under  favourable 
conditions,"  Oliver  proceeded,  with  hideous  cunning ; 
l(  but  I  should  think,  as  I  am  paying  pretty  well  for  my 
accommodations,  I  ought,  at  least,  to  get  the  liberty  of 
the  grounds.      What  do  you  say  ?  " 


3 1 8  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  I  say,  Go,  this  minute,  or  I'll  throw  you  neck 
and  crop  down  that  bank,"  said  Gregory,  with  unmistak- 
able sincerity,  ?t  which  Oliver,  suddenly  cowed,  and  his 
weak  legs  trembling  under  him,  faced  about  promptly 
and  retreated  down  the  path.  He  paused  at  a  safe  dis- 
tance, while  Gregory's  hands  tingled  to  collar  him,  and 
called  back,  in  a  loud,  confidential  whisper:  — 

"  You  can  have  her  all  to  yourself  this  time.  That's 
all  right,"  and  with  this  he  hurried  off,  his  thin  lips 
writhing  in  a  malicious  smile,  and  his  hands  clenched 
tightly  and  cruelly. 

For  a  moment  Gregory  stood  still  in  the  path.  A 
dark  flush  had  mounted  slowly  even  to  his  forehead. 
He  was  irresolute  whether  to  follow  and  find  Anna,  or 
to  return  directly  to  the  valley.  Something  in  Oliver's 
ugly  taunt  acted  like  a  challenge  upon  him,  it  seemed, 
for,  turning,  and  catching  through  the  trees  the  glimmer 
of  Anna's  white  dress,  he  hastened  on  up  the  path. 

He  found  her  sitting  on  a  mossy  rock  at  the  foot  of 
the  cliff,  where  there  were  trees  and  shade  and  a  fair 
view  of  the  valley,  and  the  blue  billowing  sea  of  the 
mountain  ranges  beyond.  Her  strength  and  colour  had 
returned  with  the  out-door  life  of  the  spring,  and  she 
looked  to-day  the  embodiment  of  radiant  health. 
Greatly  astonished  at  Gregory's  appearance,  she  yet 
welcomed  it  with  unaffected  gladness,  starting  to  rise 
from  her  low  seat  with  the  impulses  of  social  observance 
which  she  could  not  quite  outgrow  even  in  the  wilder- 
ness ;  but  he  motioned  to  her  to  sit  still.  All  around 
her  the  children  had  flung;  their  branches  of  laurel  and 
azalea,  running  off  to  gather  more  and  bring  her,  and  the 
delicate  suffusion  of  colour  made  an  exquisite  background 
to    the    picture.      The  picture  itself,   Gregory   thought, 


Night  319 

Everett  ought  to  have  painted  for  a  Madonna ;  for  in 
Anna's  lap  leaned  a  sturdy,  fair-haired  boy,  with  a  cherub 
face,  a  child  of  less  than  four  years,  his  head  thrust  back 
against  her  shoulder  as  he  looked  out  from  that  vantage 
ground  with  serene  eyes  at  Gregory,  while  Anna  held 
one  round  little  hand  in  hers  and  looked  down  upon  the 
child  with  all  the  wistful  fondness  of  unfulfilled  mater- 
nal love. 

"  Do  not  smile,"  said  Gregory,  with  affected  stern- 
ness at  last,  as  she  glanced  up  from  the  child  to  him 
with  a  questioning  smile,  expecting  some  explanation 
for  his  presence  here ;  "  I  have  come  this  time  to  scold 
you." 

"  O  dear !  "  said  Anna,  with  a  gay  little  laugh  of  sur- 
prise.     "  My  turn  has  come  !  " 

"  Yes,  your  turn  has  come,"  he  continued  gravely. 
"  Do  you  not  know  that  when  you  come  away  on  such 
long,  lonely  climbs  as  this,  even  with  the  children,  you 
give  us  anxiety  for  you,  and  trouble  ?  I  have  had  to 
come  all  this  distance  to  take  care  of  you." 

Anna  shook  her  head,  much  more  puzzled  than 
penitent. 

"  What  is  there  to  be  troubled  about  ?  "  she  cried. 

Gregory  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  found  it  im- 
possible to  make  mention  of  Oliver  in  her  presence. 
He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  little  child,  who  was  on  his 
knees  now,  by  Anna's  side,  pouring  out  into  her  white 
dress  a  small  handful  of  scarlet  berries,  and  letting 
them  run  like  jewels  through  his  fingers,  laughing  to 
see  them  roll. 

"  Do  you  not  know,"  he  began  again,  very  slowly, 
"  that  we  fear  for  your  strength,  for  your  endurance, 
upon  which  you  will  never,  yourself,  have  mercy  ?  " 


320  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

Anna  began  to  protest  a  little,  her  colour  deepening  at 
some  vague  change  in  his  tone  and  manner. 

"  Do  you  not  know,"  he  continued,  not  heeding  her 
interruption,  "  that  you  are  the  very  heart  of  our  life, 
here  in  Fraternia  ?  that  we  all  turn  to  you  for  our 
inspiration,  our  hope,  our  ideal  ?  Should  we  not 
guard  you,  since  without  you  we  all  should  fade  and 
fail  ?  " 

Never  before  had  Anna  heard  this  cadence  of  tender- 
ness in  Gregory's  voice,  nor  in  the  voice  of  man  or 
woman  ;  the  whole  strength  of  his  protecting  manhood, 
of  his  high  reverence  and  his  strong  heart,  was  in  it, 
but  there  was  something  more.  What  was  it  ?  A 
tremor  ran  through  Anna's  heart.  Could  she  dare  to 
know  ?  She  lifted  her  eyes  at  last  to  meet  his  look,  and 
what  she  read  was  what  she  had  never  dreamed  of, 
never  feared  nor  hoped  —  the  supreme  human  love  which 
a  man  can  know.  Reading  this,  she  did  not  fear  nor 
faint  nor  draw  her  own  look  away,  but  rather  her  eyes 
met  his,  full  of  awe  and  solemn  joy  ;  for  at  last,  in  that 
moment,  her  own  heart  was  revealed  to  itself. 

"  O  Anna  !  —  O  Benigna  !  " 

Gregory  spoke  at  last,  or  rather  it  seemed  as  if  the 
whole  deep  heart  of  the  man  breathed  out  its  life  on 
the  svllables  of  those  two  names. 

In  the  silence  which  followed  Anna  sat  quite  quiet 
in  her  place,  the  sun  and  the  soft  shadows  of  the  young 
oak  leaves  playing  over  her  face  and  figure.  The  child 
still  tossed  his  red  berries  with  ripples  of  gleeful  laughter 
over  the  whiteness  of  her  dress,  and  not  far  away  could 
be  heard  the  busy  voices  of  the  older  children  as  they 
ruthlessly  broke  away  the  blossoms  from  their  stems. 
And  in  the  sun  and  shade  and  the  stillness  Anna  sat, 


Night  32.1 

while  wave  after  wave  of  incredible  joy  broke  over  her 
spirit.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  knew  love, 
knowing  it  for  what  it  was.  She  had  not  asked  to 
know  it,  nor  mourned  that  she  had  missed  its  full 
measure,  nor  dreamed  that  it  could  yet  be  hers ;  but 
it  had  come,  not  stayed  by  bonds  nor  stopped  by  vows. 
It  was  here !  The  man  whose  strong  spirit,  in  its 
freedom  and  power,  had  cast  its  spell  upon  her  mysteri- 
ously even  before  she  had  seen  his  face  save  in  a  dream, 
loved  her,  with  eyes  to  look  like  that  upon  her  and  that 
mighty  tenderness  !  Life  was  fulfilled.  Let  death  come 
now.      It  was  enough  ! 

The  moment,  being  supreme  in  its  way,  was  not  one 
to  leave  room  for  outward  excitement,  for  flutter  and 
trepidation.  Anna  rose  now  from  her  place  with  per- 
fect calmness,  and  bent  to  take  the  little,  laughing  child 
by  the  hand,  while  she  went  to  call  the  others  together. 
Gregory  had  turned  away  slightly,  and  with  his  arms 
crossed  over  his  breast  was  leaning  hard  against  the 
rugged  wall  of  the  cliff",  his  head  thrown  back  against 
it,  his  face  set,  his  whole  aspect  as  of  some  granite 
figure  of  heroic  mould,  carved  there  in  relief.  Anna 
heard  a  sound  like  a  groan  break  from  his  lips,  and 
turning  back,  with  an  irresistible  impulse,  laid  her  hand, 
light  as  a  leaf,  upon  his  arm. 

From  head  to  foot  Gregory  trembled  then. 

"  Don't,"  he  said  sternly,  under  his  breath. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Anna,  confused  at  his  sudden 
harshness. 

"It  is  the  end,"  he  said,  with  low  distinctness  and  the 
emphasis  of  finality. 

Then,  only  then,  did  Anna  waken  to  perceive  that 
what   in  that  brief  moment  of  joy  she   had    taken    for 

Y 


322  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

glory,  was  only  shame  and  loss  and  undoing,  unless 
smothered   at   the  birth. 

An  inarticulate  cry  broke  from  her  then,  so  poignant, 
although  low,  that  the  little  child,  pulling  at  her  dress, 
began  to  cry  piteously.  She  stooped  to  comfort  him, 
gave  him  again  the  hand  which  she  had  laid  on  Gregory's 
arm,  then,  turning,  walked  slowly  away. 

Gregory  made  no  motion  to  detain  her  or  to  follow, 
but  stood  as  she  left  him,  braced  against  the  rock.  Anna 
gathered  her  little  flock,  and  they  hastened  down  the  hill 
in  a  gay  procession,  with  the  waving  branches  of  April 
bloom,  and  the  merry  voices  of  the  children.  Only 
Sister  Benigna,  as  she  walked  among  them,  little  Judith 
noticed,  was  white  and  still. 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

Then  fell  thick  rain,  plume  droopt  and  mantle  clung, 

And  pettish  cries  awoke,  and  the  wan  day 

Went  glooming  down  in  wet  and  weariness ; 

But  under  her  black  brows  a  swarthy  one 

Laugh' d  shrilly,  crying  :    "  Praise  the  patient  saints, 

Our  one  white  day  of  Innocence  hath  past, 

Though  somewhat  draggled  at  the  skirt.     So  be  it." 

—  Tennyson. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  evening  Barnabas  Rosenblatt, 
working  around  the  mill  stables,  was  startled  at  the  sud- 
den appearance  of  Gregory,  who  passed  him  without 
speaking,  as  he  went  hurriedly  into  the  stall  and  brought 
out  his  horse.  The  day  had  been  followed  by  a  night 
of  brilliant  moonlight,  and  Barnabas  saw,  as  distinctly  as 
if  it  had  been  day,  that  his  face,  usually  firm  and  com- 
posed, was  drawn  and  haggard  to  a  degree.  He  started 
to  speak  to  him,  but  an  imperious  gesture  of  Gregory 
silenced  him.  Without  a  word  Barnabas  therefore  as- 
sisted him  in  saddling  the  horse,  and  then  stood  perplexed 
as  he  watched  him  gallop  away  down  the  valley  in  the 
moonlight. 

Straight  on  through  a  narrow  bridle-path  which  led 
by  a  short  cut  through  the  stretch  of  oak  wood  to  the 
little  hamlet  of  Spalding,  Gregory  galloped.  He  had 
reached  the  outskirts  of  the  woods,  and  was  in  sight  of 
the  level  meadows  and  the  cluster  of  lights  of  the  village 
beyond,  when  he  suddenly  perceived  the  figure  of  a  man 
on  foot  approaching  him  from  the  direction  of  Spalding. 
A  few  steps  more,  and   Gregory  saw,  with  surprise  and 

323 


324  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

strange  perturbation,  that  it  was  Keith  Burgess.  He 
reined  up  his  horse  and  stood  motionless,  until  Keith  had 
reached  him,  and  called  out  a  greeting  as  he  stood  in  the 
path,  looking  a  pigmy  beside  the  Titanic  proportions  of 
the  horse  and  rider.  The  moonlight  showed  Keith  more 
thin  and  wan  than  ever.  He  had  returned  to  Fraternia 
once  before  this  spring,  in  March,  but,  after  a  week,  had 
been  glad  to  go  back  to  Baltimore,  with  some  rather 
vague  commission.  His  return  at  this  time  was  wholly 
unexpected,  even  by  Anna. 

Keith  had  long  since  come  to  stand  to  Gregory  for 
something  like  a  concrete  embodiment  of  his  many 
disappointments  and  vexations,  by  reason  of  his  luke- 
warm participation  in  his  own  purposes,  his  ineffective 
labours,  and  his  continual  draft  upon  Anna's  sympathies. 
As  Gregory  looked  down  upon  him,  thrown  at  this 
moment  so  unexpectedly  in  his  path,  a  singular  hardness 
toward  the  man  came  upon  him,  for  he  was  hard  beset  by 
passion;  and  while  he  meant  to  have  no  mercy  upon 
himself,  he  was  not  in  the  mood  to  have  mercy  upon 
another  man,  least  of  all,  perhaps,  upon  Keith. 

"You  are  going  back  to  Fraternia?"  he  asked  coldly, 
his  tone  striking  Keith  with  chill  surprise.  The  latter 
assented  as  a  matter  of  course. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  ;  Keith  felt  something 
sinister  in  the  nature  of  it. 

"  Why  should  you  go  back  there  ?  "  Gregory  asked 
now,  with  the  same  careless  coldness;  "you  have  no 
heart  in  Fraternia  or  its  purposes." 

Keith  was  stirred,  and  answered  pointedly :  — 

"  I  have  at  least  a  wife  in  Fraternia,  Mr.  Gregory." 

Gregory  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  a  measuring 
glance,  noting  his  wasted  and  feeble  appearance. 


Night  325 

"  I  suppose  you  do  need  nursing,"  he  said  slowly. 

Keith  Burgess  turned  ashy  pale.  Was  this  wanton 
injury  ?  Did  Gregory  wish  to  insult  him  ?  What  did 
it  mean  ?  Gregory  did  not  know  himself.  He  knew 
only  that,  in  the  agony  of  that  night,  for  he  had  fully 
resolved  himself  to  see  Anna  no  more,  the  sight  of 
Keith  Burgess  worked  like  madness  in  his  brain. 

"  Mrs.  Burgess,"  he  said  now,  with  the  deliberation 
of  strongly  suppressed  excitement,  "  is  more  highly  en- 
dowed for  great  issues  than  any  person  I  have  ever 
known.  It  is  almost  a  pity  that  she  should  not  have 
freedom  to  use  her  powers  in  the  greater  activities  to 
which  she  is  fitted." 

Each  sentence,  cruel  with  all  the  cruelty  which  the 
climax  of  pride  and  passion  could  inspire,  pierced  the 
heart  of  Keith  like  a  shaft  barbed  with  steel.  He  stepped 
backward  and  leaned  against  a  tree,  breathing  hard. 
The  occult,  mysterious  quality  of  the  moment's  experi- 
ence to  him  was  that  he  saw  himself,  distinctly  and  as  if 
by  an  inexorable  necessity,  turning  away  from  Fraternia, 
and  going  back  by  the  way  which  he  had  come. 

Without  another  word,  Gregory  tightened  his  rein 
and  galloped  on,  out  through  the  wood's  edge  and  so 
down  to  the  plain.  He  did  not  see,  in  the  high  excite- 
ment of  the  moment,  the  figure  of  a  man  lurking  stealth- 
ily among  the  trees  at  no  great  distance  from  where 
Keith  stood.  When  the  sound  of  the  horse's  hoofs  had 
died  away,  this  figure  stepped  softly  out  from  its  shelter 
and  passed  along  the  bridle-path,  peering  inquisitively  in 
the  face  of  Keith  as  he  still  stood  where  Gregory  had 
left  him.  But  neither  did  Keith  observe  him,  nor 
care  who  he  was,  and  so  he  went  on  his  way  toward 
Fraternia.      He  looked  back  once  or  twice.      His  last 


2i6  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

look  showed  him  that  Keith  had  gathered  himself  to- 
gether and  was  walking  slowly  away,  in  the  direction 
from  which  he  had  come. 

Keith  walked  blindly  on,  not  knowing  why  he  went, 
nor  where  he  went,  like  a  man  who  has  suffered  a  heavy 
blow  upon  his  brain,  and  moves  only  automatically  with- 
out thought  or  will.  On  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
near  the  railroad,  he  passed  a  barn,  rickety  and  disused, 
but  there  was  old  hay  in  a  heap  on  the  floor  of  it,  it 
offered  shelter,  and  shelter  without  the  contact  with 
others  from  which  he  shrunk  as  if  he  were  in  dis- 
grace, and  fleeing  for  his  life.  Accordingly  Keith  went 
into  this  place,  drawing  the  broken  door  together  as  far 
as  he  could  move  it  on  its  rusty  hinges,  threw  himself 
on  the  heap  of  hay,  and  slept  until  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  The  one  passenger  train  of  the  day  passing 
through  Spalding  eastward  was  due  at  five  o'clock. 
Keith  was  wakened  by  the  long  whistle  announcing 
its  approach,  and  came  dizzily  out  into  the  chill  and 
wet  of  a  miserable  morning. 

The  train  slowed  down  as  it  neared  the  place  where 
he  stood.  He  swung  himself  upon  it  with  the  brief  but 
tense  nervous  energy  of  great  exhaustion,  sank  into  a 
vacant  seat  in  the  foul,  unventilated  car,  and  was  car- 
ried on,  whither  he  did  not  know  or  care. 

Anna,  coming  back  from  the  walk  to  Eagle  Rock, 
had  gone  to  her  own  house  alone.  Here  she  spent  the 
earlier  hours  of  the  evening  in  the  deepest  travail  of  soul 
she  had  ever  known.  The  purity  and  unworldliness  of 
all  her  life,  both  the  life  of  her  girlhood  and  that  with 
Keith,  had  served  to  keep  far  from  her  familiarity  with 
possibilities  of  moral  danger.  She  was  as  innocent  of 
certain  kinds   of  evil  as  a  child,  and   the  thought   that  a 


Night  327 

temptation  to  a  guilty  love  could  assault  her  would, 
until  this  day,  have  appeared  to  her  incredible.  And 
now,  in  the  fierce  struggle  of  this  passion,  the  only  one 
she  had  ever  known,  she  knew  herself  not  only  capable 
of  sin,  but  caught  at  last  in  its  power. 

Not  that  for  a  moment  she  dreamed  of  any  compro- 
mise of  outward  fidelity ;  such  a  thought  she  rejected 
with  horror  as  inconceivable  either  to  herself  or  to 
Gregory,  whom  she  firmly  believed  to  be  far  stronger 
than  she.  But  the  flaw  in  faithfulness  had  come 
already,  beyond  recall,  beyond  repair.  Her  whole  soul 
moved  toward  this  man,  who  had  so  long  secretly  domi- 
nated her  inner  life,  with  a  mighty  and  overwhelming 
tide. 

Her  relation  to  Keith  had  been  that  of  gentlest  con- 
sideration, kindliness,  and  affection.  More  it  had  never 
been  ;  and  to-night  it  seemed  as  powerless  to  stay  the 
flood  of  passion  as  a  wall  of  sand  built  on  the  shore  of 
an  infinite  sea  by  the  hands  of  a  child. 

So  Anna  thought,  so  she  felt.  She  went  to  the  door 
of  her  cabin  with  this  thought  mastering  her,  driven  by 
restlessness,  and  longing  to  feel  the  coolness  of  the  night 
air  on  her  face.  For  a  moment  she  stood  in  her  open 
door,  and  saw  mechanically  that  the  moonlight  was  shed 
abroad  in  the  valley ;  she  heard  the  voices  of  the  men 
across  the  river  singing  in  a  strong,  sweet  chorus. 

Then,  suddenly,  as  if  the  words  had  been  spoken  in 
her  ear,  the  thought  came  to  her, "  But  Keith  needs  me; 
he  needs  me  now  !  " 

What  was  it  ?  She  did  not  know.  She  never  under- 
stood. The  sense  was  strong  upon  her  that  Keith  was 
near  her ;  that  he  was  in  some  danger,  and  needed  her. 

Without  pause  to  consider  what  she  did,  Anna  flew 


328  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

down  the  river  path  and  reached  the  mill  breathless. 
The  pond  lay  in  the  moonlight,  motionless.  The  air 
did  not  stir.  The  mill  was  still  and  dark  and  deserted. 
The  woods  were  dim  with  their  night  mystery.  She 
looked  down  the  valley,  and  up,  and  across  the  river, 
and  everywhere  was  perfect  peace,  save  in  her  own 
heart.  Then  in  the  silence  she  heard  a  step  approach- 
ing from  the  direction  of  the  woods  below.  She  drew 
back  hastily  into  the  protection  of  the  mill  porch  and 
waited  for  the  steps  to  pass.  Whoever  it  was  paused 
for  a  little  time  above  the  mill,  and  Anna's  heart  beat 
hard  with  a  sense  of  dread  and  danger.  Finally  she 
heard  the  steps  pass  on,  and  when  she  returned  to  the 
road  she  recognized  the  unmistakable  figure  of  the  man 
now  moving  on  in  the  unshadowed  moonlight  to  the 
bridge  above.      It  was  Oliver  Ingraham. 

Slowly  Anna  returned  to  her  own  cottage,  not  daring 
to  do  otherwise,  a  heavy  oppression  on  her  heart. 

Early  in  the  morning,  which  was  cold  and  rainy, 
Oliver  was  at  her  door,  and  she  answered  his  summons 
herself,  full  of  a  vague,  trembling  anxiety.  He  scanned 
her  face  narrowly  ;  it  was  careworn  and  hollow-eyed, 
for  she  had  slept  not  at  all. 

In  silence  he  handed  her  a  letter,  broken  at  the  edges, 
and  soiled  with  long  carrying  about.  She  glanced  at 
the  address.  It  was  Keith's,  written  by  herself  perhaps 
a  month  before;  not  a  recent  letter.  She  looked  at 
Oliver  in  speechless   perplexity. 

"  I  found  that  lying  on  the  ground  down  near  Spald- 
ing last  night,"  he  said,  still  eying  her  craftily,  and  with 
that  hurried  off,  giving  her  not  another  word. 

Anna  went  in,  closed  the  door,  and  drew  out  the 
letter.       It    was    unimportant,   insignificant,   simply  an 


Night  329 

ordinary  letter  of  wifely  affection  and  solicitude,  but  one 
which  had  evidently  been  much  read,  being  worn  on  the 
folds.  Who  could  have  carried  it  save  Keith  himself? 
Had  he,  then,  been  really  near  her  the  night  before  ? 
Was  he  really  coming  ? 

Anna  knew  already  that  it  was  for  this  she  longed 
supremely. 

Noon  brought  to  Everett  a  special  messenger  with 
a  letter  from  Gregory,  who  brought  with  him  also  the 
roan    horse    ridden    the    night    before    to    the    county 

town,  C ,  and  evidently  ridden  fiercely.      At  C 

was  the  bank  where  Gregory  transacted  all  his  business. 
This  letter  stated,  first  of  all,  that  he  had  suddenly 
reached  the  conclusion  that  it  was  important  and  im- 
perative that  he  should  go  at  once  to  England  in  the 
interests  of  the  colony.  He  should  not  return  to  Fra- 
ternia  before  sailing.  He  wished  to  empower  Everett 
to  act  in  his  place  during  his  absence,  which  would  not 
be  for  more  than  three  months. 

Various  items  of  business  were  enumerated,  and  the 
letter  closed  with  this  remarkable  statement :  "  The 
funds  furnished  by  Mr.  Ingraham  of  Burlington  have 
been  returned  to  him  with  the  exception  of  the  five 
thousand  dollars  already  used,  which  I  shall  restore  at 
my  earliest  opportunity.  This  removes  the  obligation 
from  us  of  counting  Mr.  Oliver  Ingraham  as  one  of  our 
number,  and  I  beg  that  you  will  signify  to  him  my 
conviction  that  his  continued  presence  in  Fraternia  is 
impossible.  Do  not  allow  him  to  stay  a  day  if  you  can 
help  yourself,  and  keep  him  under  your  eye  while  he 
remains." 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

I  said  farewell ; 
I  stepped  across  the  cracking  earth  and  knew 
'Twould  yawn  behind  me.      I  must  walk  right  on, 

.    .    .    Fate  has  carried  me 
'Mid  the  thick  arrows  ;   I  will  keep  my  stand, 
Not  shrink  and  let  the  shaft  pass  by  my  breast 
To  pierce  another  :   oh,  'tis  written  large 
The  thing  I  have  to  do. 

—  George  Eliot. 

The  following  morning  Anna  sent  for  Oliver. 
Word  had  reached  her  that  he  was  about  to  leave 
Fraternia.  In  the  depth  of  her  present  distress  and 
perplexity  a  thought  which  "  had  no  form,  a  suffering 
which  had  no  tongue "  had  arisen.  Gregory,  she 
knew,  had  left  the  village  hastily  that  night  under  stress 
of  powerful  emotion,  perhaps  in  a  condition  of  mental 
excitement  exceeding  his  own  control.  It  seemed  to 
her  possible  that  somewhere  on  the  way  from  Fraternia 
to  Spalding  he  might  have  encountered  Keith.  The 
letter  brought  by  Oliver  indicated,  she  was  more  and 
more  convinced,  that  he  had  really  been  on  his  way 
to  her.  If  this  were  true,  some  event  had  interposed, 
something  had  occurred  to  hinder  his  coming.  What 
could  it  have  been,  supposing  him  to  have  been  but  two 
miles  away,  save  some  mysterious,  unthinkable  effect 
of  an  interview  with  Gregory,  if  such  there  had  been  ? 
It  was  no  longer  possible,  no  longer  justifiable,  to  await 
events.  She  must  herself  discover  all  that  Oliver  knew, 
even  if  the  discovery  were  to  mean  despair. 

330 


Night  331 

Alone,  in  her  own  cabin,  she  received  Oliver.  If 
Keith  had  been  in  Fraternia,  or  John  Gregory,  it  would 
not  have  been  permitted  ;  but  her  intense  anxiety  and 
suspense  overbore  her  usual  shrinking  from  contact  with 
the  man,  and  Everett  yielded  to  her  wish  to  see  him 
alone. 

Oliver  entered  the  cabin,  noting  its  simple  appoint- 
ments with  his  characteristic  curiosity.  Anna  pointed 
to  a  chair  which  he  took,  although  she  herself  remained 
standing.  Her  face  was  as  white  as  her  dress,  her  eyes 
deeply  sunken,  her  manner  sternly  imperious. 

"  You  are  going  away  from  Fraternia  to-day  ?"  she 
asked,  with  swift  directness. 

"Yes,"  said  Oliver,  nodding  with  his  peculiar  smile; 
"this  precious  demigod  or  demagogue  —  whichever  you 
please  —  of  yours,  your  imperial  Gregory,  has  issued  a 
ukase  against  me,  in  short,  has  done  me  the  honour  to 
banish  me  from  the  matchless  delights  and  privileges 
of  Fraternia  !  "  The  last  word  was  spoken  with  a  slow 
emphasis  of  condensed  contempt. 

"  There  is  something  really  a  little  queer  about  it," 
Oliver  continued,  in  a  different  tone.  "  I  am  on  to 
most  of  what  happened  between  my  father  and  Gregory, 
but  Fve  missed  a  link  now  somewhere.  You  see,  the 
governor,  in  a  fit  of  temporary  aberration,  offered  Greg- 
ory a  magnificent  contribution  for  his  socialist  scheme 
down  here;  but  Gregory  was  pretty  high  and  lofty  just 
then,  and,  'No,  sir,'  said  he  —  I  heard  him,  though  he 
and  the  governor  don't  know  it  — 4  No,  sir,  I  couldn't 
touch  your  money.  I  am  just  that  fastidious.'  The 
governor  had  been  confessing  his  sins  to  Gregory,  the 
worse  fool  he  !  It  seemed  that  his  money  had  come  to 
him  in  a  way  that  might  make  some  men  squeamish,  and 


331  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

Gregory,  oh,  dear,  no  !  he  wouldn't  have  touched  those 
ill-gotten  gains  as  he  was  feeling  then  —  not  with  the 
tip  of  one  finger. 

"  But  the  joke  is,"  Oliver  went  on,  "  that  he  had  to 
come  to  it.  Oh,  yes;  he  got  down  on  his  marrow  bones 
to  the  governor  here  about  three  months  ago,  and  wrote 
to  him  that  he  had  reconsidered  the  matter,  and  saw  his 
mistake,"  and  Oliver  gave  a  low  chuckle  ;  "  so  the 
governor  had  to  come  down  with  the  lucre,  more  or 
less  filthy  as  it  was,  and  I  don't  think  he  was  quite  so 
much  in  the  mood  for  it  either  as  he  was  at  the  first,  to 
tell  the  truth.  But  he  sent  it  all  the  same,  and  sent 
me  with  it,  don't  you  see?  I  came  as  the  saviour  of 
Fraternia,  although  I  have  never  been  so  recognized.  The 
whole  town  has  been  run  the  last  month  or  two  on 
Ingraham  money,  and  it  seems  to  have  greased  the 
wheels  about  as  well  as  any  other  money,  for  all  I  see. 
But  now  comes  the  unexpected  !  Off  goes  Gregory  to 
England,  sends  back  the  governor's  check ,  so  I  hear 
from  Everett,  and  kindly  writes  me  to  take  myself  off. 
What  brought  him  to  that  is  what  I  don't  quite  see 
through  yet." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Anna,  concealing  her  dismay 
at  Oliver's  malign  disclosure  with  a  manner  of  cold 
indifference,  "  that  Mr.  Gregory  had  good  reasons  for 
thinking  it  better  for  you  to  return  to  Burlington." 

"  You're  right  there,"  retorted  Oliver,  quickly  ;  "  oh, 
yes,  he  had  excellent  reasons,  the  best  of  reasons.  A 
man  who  knows  too  much  is  often  inconvenient,  you 
know." 

"  Mr.  Ingraham,"  Anna  asked  hastily,  apparently 
ignoring  this  insinuation  although  she  trembled  now 
from    head  to  foot,  "  I  am  not  interested  in    the  busi- 


Night  333 

ness  relations  of  your  father  and  Mr.  Gregory.  It  was 
not  to  hear  of  them  I  sent  for  you.  You  brought  me  a 
letter  yesterday  which  I  think  must  have  been  not  long 
ago  in  my  husband's  possession.  I  wish  you  to  tell  me 
if,  on  the  night  when  you  found  this  letter,  that  is  the 
night  before  last,  you  saw  my  husband  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Fraternia  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  Oliver,  as  if  it  were  quite  a  matter 
of  course  ;   "  were  you  not  expecting  him  ?  " 

"Where  did  you  see  him  ? "  The  question  came  quick 
and  sharp. 

"  Well,"  said  Oliver,  reflectively,  "  you  would  like  me 
to  be  exact,  I  suppose.  Let  me  see,  how  shall  I  describe 
the  place  so  that  you  will  recall  it  — distinctly." 

There  was  a  certain  cold  deliberation  in  the  articu- 
lation of  these  words  which  gave  them  a  sickening  cruelty. 
They  called  up  strange  visions  of  dread  and  dismay  to 
Anna's  tortured  imagination. 

"  Speak  more  quickly,"  she  commanded,  rather  than 
asked,  "  the  precise  spot  makes  no  difference. " 

"  It  was  near  the  edge  of  the  woods,  on  the  Spalding 
side,  that  I  saw  him  first.  The  night  was  quite  bright 
with  moonlight,  if  you  remember.  I  had  taken  a  stroll 
down  to  Spalding  myself  for  some  of  those  little  luxu- 
ries which  Fraternia  doesn't  furnish,  and  was  on  my  way 
back  when  I  first  noticed  Mr.  Burgess.  He  was  just 
striking  into  the  path,  there  by  that  dead  oak  tree;  you 
may  remember  it.  I  noticed  it  because  it  stood  out  so 
white  in  the  moonlight,  and  it  was  just  at  the  foot  of  it 
:hat  I  picked  up  that  letter.  I  did  not  know  that  he 
had  dropped  it,  nor  whose  it  was  until  after  I  got 
home." 

''Undoubtedly  false,"  thought   Anna;   "you   had  not 


334  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

had  the  chance  to  read  it,  that  was  all,"  but  she  did  not 
speak.  Oliver  too  was  silent,  as  if  he  had  answered  her 
question,  and  was  done. 

"  Please  go  on."  Anna  kept  her  patience  and  control 
still. 

"  Oh  !  "  exclaimed  Oliver,  as  if  surprised,  "you  want 
to  hear  more,  do  you  ?  All  right.  I  guess  likely  I'm 
the  only  man  that  can  tell  you,  being  the  only  witness, 
in  fact." 

"  Witness  of  what  ?  "  Anna  cried  importunately. 

"  Well,  that's  it.  That's  what  I've  asked  myself 
more  than  once  since  that  night,  and  I  rather  guess  as 
good  a  description  as  I  could  give  would  be  to  call  it 
a  kind  of  moral  murder;  a  moral  murder,"  and  Oliver 
repeated  the  phrase  as  if  gratified  by  the  acuteness  of 
his  perception  in  forming  it. 

He  watched  her  face  closely,  and  beginning  to  fear 
from  the  bluish  shade  which  tinged  her  pallor  that  Anna 
would  soon  be  released  from  his  power  to  torture  by 
unconsciousness,  hastily  took  another  line. 

"  Oh,  you've  nothing  to  worry  about,  Mrs.  Burgess, 
nothing  at  all.  That  was  just  a  little  fancy  of  mine, 
just  my  metaphorical  way  of  stating  things.  It  was  a 
very  simple  little  incident,  nothing  which  need  afreet  a 
man  unpleasantly  in  the  least.  It  just  happened,  you 
see,  that  Gregory  was  galloping  down  the  path  toward 
Spalding,  and  he  met  your  husband,  and  they  had  a  little 
talk  together,  —  a  mere  quiet  conversation  for  a  few  mo- 
ments,—  and  Mr.  Burgess  seemed  to  change  his  mind 
about  going  to  Fraternia  just  then,  and  turned  back 
toward  the  village.  That  was  all.  I  watched  him  a 
little,  to  be  sure  he  didn't  need  any  help,  you  know, 
afterward.      Gregory  galloped  right  along  ;  he  was  going 


Night  33$ 

to  catch  a  train,  I  suppose,  at  C ,  and  that  made  him 

in  something  of  a  hurry,  of  course." 

"  Why  should  my  husband  have  needed  help,  Mr. 
Ingraham  ?  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  explain  your- 
self clearly,  and  in  as  few  words  as  possible  ?  "  Anna 
spoke  more  calmly  now,  but  her  eyes  were  like  coals  of 
fire. 

"  Certainly,  certainly.  I  cannot  repeat  Gregory's 
language,  not  literally,  but  it  seemed  to  cut  Mr.  Bur- 
gess up  a  good  deal  at  the  time,  —  at  least  I  fancied  so. 
That  is  what  I  meant  by  that  little  simile  of  mine 
awhile  ago.  He's  all  over  it  now,  of  course.  It  was 
only  a  few  words  anyway.  Just  that  Gregory  said,  in 
that  short  way  he  has  once  in  awhile —  Probably 
you've  never  heard  him  ;  he  wouldn't  be  apt  to  speak 
so  to  you,"  and  Oliver  decorated  the  sentence  with  one 
of  his  most  insinuating  smiles. 

"  Mr.  Gregory  said  —  ?  "  Anna  asked,  looking  into 
his  face  with  an  unflinching  directness,  before  which 
Oliver's  eyes  wandered  nervously. 

"  Why,  he  seemed  surprised  that  Mr.  Burgess  should 
be  coming  back  so  soon,  and  he  gave  him  to  understand 
that  a  man  like  him,  who  was  sick  all  the  time,  and  not 
much  of  a  Fraternian,  either,  was  rather  a  drag  on  such 
a  woman  as  you,  don't  you  see  ?  and  it  might  be  fully 
as  well  if  he  should  keep  away  and  give  you  your  free- 
dom most  of  the  time." 

"  Did  my  husband  make  any  reply  that  you  heard  ?  " 
asked  Anna,  huskily,  this  hideous  distortion  of  unformu- 
lated traitor  thoughts  which  had  lurked  in  the  back- 
ground of  her  own  consciousness  confronting  her  now  to 
her  terror,  and  her  heart  doubly  sick  with  the  loathing  of 
being  forced  to  ask  such  information  from  such  a  source. 


336  A   Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  He  said  you  were  at  least  his  wife,  I  remember  that. 
I  guess  that  was  about  all.  It  struck  me  at  the  time 
that  there  was  something  in  what  he  said,  with  all  due 
respect  for  Gregory.  He  rules  everything  here,  of 
course,  though,  I  suppose,  —  even  to  the  relations  be- 
tween husbands  and  wives." 

The  last  words  were  lost  upon  Anna. 

"  You  may  go  now,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Ingraham," 
she  said  calmly.  Her  look  and  an  unconscious  gesture 
of  dismissal  were  imperative,  and  Oliver,  not  daring  to 
disobey,  left  the  place  without  another  word. 

For  two  days  Anna  sat  alone  and  in  silence,  waiting 
for  the  summons  which  she  knew  by  a  sure  intuition 
must  come. 

Oliver's  story  had  been  confirmed  in  so  far  that  it 
had  been  learned  that  Keith  had  been  seen  in  Spalding 
on  the  night  of  Gregory's  departure,  and  had  been  known 
to  take  an  east-bound  train  on  the  following  morning. 
Nothing  further  was  discovered  regarding  his  movements, 
and  it  was  useless  to  try  to  follow  and  find  him.  Anna 
could  only  wait. 

When  the  message  came  it  was,  as  she  had  known  it 
would  be,  urgent  and  ominous.  Keith  was  in  Raleigh  ; 
he  was  very  ill ;   she  must  go  at  once. 

Everything  was  ready,  and  with  a  strange  composure 
and  quietness  as  of  one  carrying  out  a  line  of  action 
fully  foreseen,  Anna  went  on  her  journey,  so  like  and 
yet  so  unlike  that  other  journey  to  Keith  which  she  had 
taken  in  her  girlhood,  ten  years  before.  That  had  ended 
in  their  marriage.      How  would  this  end  ? 

Reaching  the  city  in  the  afternoon,  Anna  was  driven 
with  the  haste  she  demanded  to  the  address  named  in 
the  message  which   had  come,  not  from   Keith   himself, 


Night  337 

but  from  a  physician.  It  was  not  that  of  a  hotel,  as  she 
had  expected,  but  of  a  boarding-house  of  very  moderate 
pretensions  in  a  quiet  street.  Even  the  small  details  of 
the  place,  in  their  cheap  commonness,  smote  her  heart. 
Was  it  in  places  like  this  that  Keith  had,  after  all,  been 
living,  instead  of  in  the  well-appointed  hotels  in  which 
she  had  always  fancied  him  ? 

The  landlady,  a  kindly,  careworn  woman,  plain  of 
dress  and  of  speech,  received  Anna  with  a  mournful 
face,  but  forebore  explanations,  seeing  that  it  was  time 
rather  for  silence,  and  led  her  down  a  long  corridor  to 
the  door  of  a  dim  and  silent  room. 

There  was  a  little  stir  as  Anna  stood  in  the  open 
door;  the  physician  came  out  and  spoke  to  her,  and 
she  saw  a  nurse  sitting  quietly  by  a  window.  But  Anna 
did  not  know  that  she  saw  or  heard  them;  her  sense 
took  in  only  her  husband,  with  eyes  closed  and  the 
shadow  of  death  upon  his  face,  lying  upon  the  strange 
bed  in  this  place  of  strangers. 

She  was  by  his  side  and  his  hands  were  in  hers,  when 
presently  he  opened  his  eyes.  Seeing  her,  a  sudden 
light  of  clear  recognition  illuminated  his  face,  a  trium- 
phant ray  of  joy  and  satisfaction.  He  tried  to  speak^ 
but  could  not,  but  Anna  felt  the  faint  pressure  of  his 
hand. 

Once  more  his  lips  moved,  and  Anna  saw  rather 
than  heard  the  words  :  — 

"  Good-by,  darling,"  and  with  them  the  same  look 
of  ineffable  love  and  peace.  Then  his  eyes  closed  and 
he  sank  again  into  unconsciousness. 

The  physician,  leaning  over,  said  softly,  "  He  will  not 
rouse  again.      This  was  most  unexpected."     He  has  been 
unconscious  since  morning." 
z 


338  A    Woman  of  Yesterday 

The  end  came  soon  after  midnight,  unconsciousness 
falling  into  death  without  pain  or  struggle. 

Of  the  days  which  followed  Anna  could  never  recall 
a  distinct  or  coherent  impression.  Detached  scenes  and 
moments  alone  lived  in  her  memory. 

She  knew  that  Everett  was  there  and  that  they  started 
for  Fulham.  Somewhere  on  the  way  Professor  Ward 
met  them,  and  Foster,  the  old  family  servant.  Nothing 
seemed  strange  and  nothing  seemed  natural ;  all  passed 
to  her  as  in  a  dream. 

She  was  at  Fulham  ;  she  remembered  afterward  that 
she  sat  in  the  library  which  Keith  had  longed  for  so, 
and  his  body  lay  beside  her,  below  the  mantelpiece 
where  she  had  so  often  seen  him  lean.  The  old  ser- 
vants, hastily  summoned  for  the  occasion,  went  and 
came,  and  looked  at  her,  she  thought,  with  eyes  of  cold 
respect  and  mute  reproach.  Then  Everett  stood  there, 
and  she  saw  that  tears  were  on  his  face  as  he  looked 
upon  his  old  friend,  but  she  did  not  cry.  Only  when 
Everett  turned  toward  her  she  said,  very  simply,  with  a 
motion  of  her  hand  which  signified  all  that  the  place 
meant :  — 

"  Keith  gave  his  life  —  for  me."  Then  Everett  had 
looked  at  her  as  if  alarmed  at  what  he  saw  in  her  face, 
and  had  gone  out  hastily  and  sent  some  woman  to  her, 
whom  she  did  not  want. 

The  incidents  of  the  funeral  seemed  to  pass  by  un- 
noticed. She  remembered  the  moment  at  the  grave  when 
at  last  she  fully  realized  that  this  was  the  end.  Then 
she  was  at  the  Fulham  railroad  station,  and  Professor 
Ward  had  come  to  her  on  the  train  and  had  held  her 
hands  strongly  in  his,  and  had  said  with  urgent  em- 
phasis :  — 


Night  339 

"  You  must  always  remember  that  Keith's  physician 
and  all  his  old  friends  believe  that  his  life  was  prolonged 
rather  than  shortened  by  your  living  in  the  South.  Do 
not  for  a  moment  dwell  on  the  opposite  thought." 

She  had  felt  her  dry  lips  tremble  then  and  her  eyes 
grew  dim,  but  she  did  not  speak.  The  train  had  moved 
out  soon,  and  she  knew  that  kind  eyes  watched  her, 
but  she  could  not  meet  their  look. 

Of  the  journey  down  into  the  West  to  her  mother 
that  night  she  remembered  nothing,  save  that  the  incessant 
jar  of  the  train  seemed  to  follow  in  a  rhythmic  endless 
repetition  the  familiar  refrain  of  the  old  passion  hymn, — 

"  Was  ever  grief  like  mine  ?  " 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

From  the  unhappy  desire  of  becoming  great ; 
Preserve  us,  gracious  Lord  and  God. 

—  Old  Moravian  Liturgy. 

There  is  a  time  when  religion  is  only  felt  as  a  bridle  that  checks  us,  and 
then  comes  another  time  when  it  is  a  sweet  and  penetrating  life-blood,  which 
sets  in  motion  every  fibre  of  the  soul,  expands  the  understanding,  gives  us  the 
Infinite  for  our  horizon,  and  makes  all  things  clear  to  us. — Lacordaire. 

On  the  quiet  street  of  the  hill  town  of  Bethlehem 
stands  the  quaint  and  ancient  building  set  apart  in  the 
Moravian   economy    as    the  Widows'    House. 

In  the  interior  of  the  old  stone  house,  with  its  massive 
walls  and  rows  of  dormer  windows,  are  wide,  low- 
ceiled  halls,  and  sunny,  sweet-smelling  chambers,  clean 
and  orderly,  chaste  and  simple,  as  those  of  a  convent. 
Here  in  mild  monotony  and  peace  the  women  of  the 
"  Widows'  Choir "  live  their  quiet  life,  and  here  in 
September  we  find  Anna  Burgess,  who  had  fled  to  this 
haven  of  her  mother's  abiding-place,  as  to  a  sanctuary. 

The  evening  was  warm,  and  the  windows  of  Gulielma 
Mallison's  room  were  open  to  the  sunshine  and  the  sweet 
air.  Flowers  blossomed  in  the  deep  window-sills  ;  the 
bare  floor  was  as  white  as  scrubbing  could  make  it ;  the 
appointments  of  the  room  were  cheerful  and  refined,  al- 
beit homely,  and  the  atmosphere  was  that  of  still  repose. 
By  the  window  Gulielma  Mallison  sat  knitting,  her  face 
beneath  its  widow's  cap  calm  and  strong  in  its  submissive 
sadness.  Opposite  her  on  the  sofa  lay  Anna,  each  line 
of   her    face    and  figure  expressing    the  suffering   of   a 

340 


Night  34I 

stricken  heart.  There  had  been  months  of  slow,  weari- 
some illness  and  of  grievous  mental  suffering,  in  which 
her  days  had  been  a  Purgatorio  and  her  nights  an 
Inferno ;  and  now  weeks  of  convalescence,  which  were 
bringing  life  back  into  her  wasted  frame,  still  failed  to 
bring  healing  to  her  mind. 

The  mother's  fond  eyes,  glancing  unperceived  across 
her  knitting,  noted  the  listless  droop  of  the  long  white 
hands  upon  the  white  dress,  the  marblelike  pallor  of  the 
forehead  from  which  the  hair  was  so  closely  drawn,  the 
hollow  cheeks,  the  piteous  sadness  of  the  mouth, 
the  glassy  brightness  of  the  eyes,  fixed  in  the  long,  still 
gaze  of  habitual  introspection. 

"  Surely,"  sighed  Gulielma  Mallison  to  herself,  as  she 
had  before  a  hundred  times,  "there  is  more  than  the 
bitterness  of  death  in  her  face;  widowhood  alone  to 
the  Christian  brings  not  such  havoc  as  this.  It  is  in 
some  place  of  danger  that  her  thoughts  are  dwelling.  I 
should  fear  less  for  her  if  she  could  only  speak  !  " 

But  Anna's  grief  could  not  find  its  way  to  words. 
How  could  her  mother,  in  her  sober,  ordered  existence, 
her  decorous  and  righteous  experiences  of  life  and  love' 
and  death,  comprehend  what  it  was  to  live  with  shadows 
of  faithlessness,  even  of  blood-guiltiness,  for  perpetual 
company  ?  For  to  Anna's  thought  Keith  had  been 
driven  to  his  lonely  death  by  the  hardness  of  Gregory, 
by  words  which  had  issued  from  the  white  heat  of  his 
passion  for  her,  a  passion  unrebuked  by  her,  — nay, 
rather,  shared  to  the  full.  Was  she  then  guiltless  of 
her  husband's  death  ? 

Not  for  a  moment  could  Anna  divide  herself  from 
Gregory  in  responsibility  for  the  action  which  Oliver 
had    characterized    as    "moral    murder."      Unsparingly 


342  A  Woman  of  Yesterday- 

just  to  herself,  she  bore  to  the  very  limit  of  reason  all 
the  fellowship  which  was  imposed  upon  her  by  the 
mastery  of  a  love  so  long  lived  in  its  unconsciousness 
and  silence,  so  soon  cut  off,  once  perceived  and  acknow- 
ledged. It  has  been  said  that  "  all  great  loves  that  have 
ever  died,  dropped  dead."  Anna's  mighty  passion  had 
been  stillborn,  slain  by  the  words  which  had  sent  Keith 
on  his  dim  way  to  death.  For  she  had  never  doubted 
that  Oliver's  rehearsal  of  the  scene  in  the  woods  between 
Gregory  and  Keith  had  been  substantially  true.  She 
knew  there  had  been  spiritual  violence  done,  and  her 
soul  recoiled  from  the  very  strength  and  power  which 
had  once  enchained  her.  Something  of  diabolical  pride 
seemed  to  her  now  to  invest  even  the  austere  morality 
of  Gregory.  He  would  have  spurned  a  yielding  to  the 
weakness  of  the  flesh,  his  moral  fastidiousness  would 
have  made  it  impossible;  but  he  fought  the  fire  of  love 
fiercely  with  the  fire  of  pride,  not  humbly  with  the 
weapons  of  prayer.  No  shield  of  faith  nor  sword  of  the 
spirit  had  been  his  in  the  hour  of  temptation,  for  all  his 
high  ideals,  but  the  sheer,  elemental  force  of  human  will. 
He  had  conquered,  or  rather  had  grappled  with,  the  one 
passion  ;  but  the  very  force  by  which  he  had  conquered 
turned  again  and  conquered  him,  and  his  very  power 
became  his  undoing. 

Beside  this  conception  of  Gregory  which  had  now 
taken  possession  of  Anna's  mind,  Keith's  gentleness, 
his  faithful,  patient  life,  above  all,  the  greatness  of  the 
silent  sacrifice  which  he  had  made  for  her  sake  when  he 
embarked  on  the  Fraternia  adventure,  became  sacred 
and  heroic.  She  saw  at  last  what  his  leaving  his  normal 
life  had  been  ;  she  believed,  as  she  had  said  to  Everett, 
that  he  had  literally  given   his  life  for  her,  and  the  sense 


Night  343 

of  his  devotion,  so  little  understood,  so  scantily  recog- 
nized, wore  ceaselessly  at  her  heart.  Her  one  drop  of 
balm  was  the  memory  of  Keith's  last  smile  of  trium- 
phant love  and  faith ;  the  bitterest  drop  in  her  Cup  of 
Trembling  that  not  one  last  word  had  been  given  her  to 
show  her  by  what  paths  his  soul  had  fared,  and  whether 
thoughts  of  peace  had  lightened  his  sufferings.  Having 
loved  her,  he  had  loved  her  to  the  end,  —  this  only  she 
knew.      His  faithfulness  had  not  failed. 

Words  which  her  father  had  spoken  to  her  shortly 
before  his  death,  vaguely  comprehended  at  the  time, 
haunted  her  now,  "  With  greatness  we  have  nothing  at 
all  to  do ;  faithfulness  only  is  our  part." 

If  only  she  had  earlier  discerned  their  meaning  ! 

Such  shape  did  these  two  men  take  to  Anna  now ; 
the  one  who  had  moulded  all  her  outward  life  and  touched 
her  inner  life  hitherto  so  faintly,  the  other  who  had 
mastered  her  in  her  innate  longing  for  power  and  free- 
dom, and  controlled  her  inner  life  for  many  years :  Keith 
seemed  to  her  now  like  some  spirit  of  gentle  ministration, 
humble,  faithful,  undefiled  ;  Gregory,  like  some  proud  spirit, 
even  as  Lucifer,  son  of  the  morning,  who  had  said, c  I  will 
ascend  into  heaven,'  but  who  had  been  brought  down  to 
hell,  dragging  with  him  all  that  was  highest  and  holiest. 
And  she  had  thought  him  so  different !  Like  another, 
her  heart  would  cry  out :  — 

**  I  thought  that  he  was  gentle,  being  great  ; 

0  God,  that  I  had  loved  a  smaller  man  ! 

1  should  have  found  in  him  a  greater  heart." 

Once,  some  weeks  earlier,  there  had  come  to  her  a 
brief  note  from  Gregory,  written  soon  after  his  return  to 
Fraternia.      It  said  only  :  — 


344  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  I  have  sinned  deeply,  against  God ;  against  him ; 
most  of  all  against  you.  I  cannot  even  venture  to  ask 
you  to  forgive.  I  can  only  say  to  you,  the  penalty  is 
wholly  mine  to  bear.     You  are  blameless." 

Having  read  the  note,  Anna  threw  it  into  the  fire,  and 
wrote  no  word  in  return. 

And  for  herself — ? 

There  was  no  softness  of  self-pity  in  Anna's  remorse. 
Dry  and  tearless  and  despairing,  she  saw  herself,  after 
long  years  of  spiritual  assurance,  of  established  and  un- 
questioned righteousness,  overwhelmed  at  last  by  sin  ;  not 
by  the  delicate  and  dainty  and  inconclusive  discords 
which  religious  experts  love  to  examine  and  analyze,  but 
by  a  gross  ground-swell  of  primitive  passion,  linking  her 
with  men  of  violence  and  women  of  shame. 

Looking  back  upon  her  girlhood,  Anna  thought  with 
sad  self-scorning  of  her  young  desire  for  "  a  deeper 
sense  of  sin."  It  had  come  now,  not  as  the  initial  stage 
in  a  knowledge  of  God,  and  of  her  relation  to  him,  but 
as  a  tardy  revelation  of  the  possibility  of  her  nature,  un- 
dreamed of  in  her  long  security.  The  cherished  formu- 
las of  the  old  system,  its  measure  of  rule  and  line  applied 
to  the  incalculable  forces  of  the  human  spirit ;  its  hard, 
inflexible  mould  into  which  the  great  tides  of  personal 
experience  must  be  poured,  seemed  to  lie  in  fragments 
about  her  now,  like  wreckage  after  a  storm.  She  remem- 
bered that  Professor  Ward  had  once  spoken  to  her  of  her 
inherited  religious  conceptions  as  terrible  in  their  power 
to  mislead,  to  deceive  the  heart  as  to  itself;  she  saw  the 
danger  of  a  belief  founded  not  on  infinite  verities,  but  on  a 
narrow  mediaeval  logic.  She  knew  sin  at  last,  and  knew 
that  it  was  not  slain  in  the  hour  of  spiritual  awakening. 

She   thought   of  the   night  preceding  her  union  with 


Night  345 

her  father's  church,  and  the  recoil  of  nameless  dread 
with  which  she  had  seen  passing  under  her  window  the 
village  outcast  whom  she  supposed  to  be  incredibly 
guilty  and  cut  off  from  fellowship  with  all  who,  like 
herself,  were  seeking  God.  And  it  was  that  very  night 
that  she  had  first  dreamed  of  the  mighty  personality, 
the  embodiment  of  power  and  greatness,  which  she  had 
thought  to  find  in  Gregory.  Though  late,  she  now 
clearly  perceived  that  in  no  human  being  could  that  ideal 
of  her  dream  find  full  manifestation. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  were  passing  behind  the  pale 
mask  of  Anna's  pain-worn  face,  which  her  mother's 
eyes  were  watching.  The  impress  of  suffering  which 
they  gave  was  hard  to  see,  and  a  long  involuntary  sigh 
escaped  Gulielma  Mallison's  lips. 

Anna  looked  up-with  eyes  as  sad  as  those  of  Michel 
Angelo's  Fates. 

«  Mother  dear,"  she  said,  her  voice  strangely  dulled 
from  its  former  clear  cadence,  "  why  do  you  sigh  ?  Do  I 
make  you  unhappy  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  comfort  you,  Anna  Benigna,"  said  the 
mother,  sorrowfully.     "  It  is  for  that  I  sigh." 

"  No,"  Anna  said  slowly,  her  eyes  falling  again  from 
her  mother's  face ;  "  you  cannot  do  that,  no  one  can. 
No  one  lives  who  can  comfort  your  child,   mother." 

"I  have  often  thought,  Anna,  that  you  may  have 
suffered,"  the  mother  ventured  almost  timidly,  "as  many 
others  have,  from  the  sad  mistakes  so  common  to  people 
who  regard  the  Christian  life  and  the  married  life  as 
ends,  instead  of  beginnings." 

Gulielma  noticed  a  slight  quickening  of  interest  in 
Anna's  eyes,  and  went  on  thoughtfully,  with  her  simple 
philosophy  of  life  :  — 


346  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  To  read  the  books  that  are  written,  and  to  hear  the 
things  that  are  said,  young  people  can  hardly  help  sup- 
posing that  when  they  become  Christians  they  will 
know  no  more  of  sin,  and  when  they  are  married  they 
will  have  only  joy  and  perfect  union.  To  my  way  of 
thinking,  these  wrong  ideas  are  responsible  for  a  great 
deal  of  needless  unhappiness.  The  Christian  life  is 
really  a  school,  with  hard  discipline  and  harder  lessons. 
As  for  marriage  —  " 

"Well,"  said  Anna,  as  her  mother  paused,  uas  to 
marriage  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  a  crown,"  said  Gulielma,  slowly,  "  but  it 
is  sure  to  be  in  some  measure  a  cross.  It  is  a  testing, 
a  trial,  a  discipline,  like  the  rest  of  life.  Only,  whether 
it  happens  to  be  happy,  or  happens  to  be  hard,  it  is 
equally  to   be  borne  faithfully  and   in  the  fear  of  God." 

There  was  silence  for  a  little  space,  and  then  a  laugh- 
ing voice  in  the  street  outside,  called  :  — 

"  Mrs.  Mallison  !  " 

Gulielma  rose  and  stepped  to  the  window,  looking 
out  over  the  crimson  and  purple  asters  into  the  street. 
A  young  girl  who  stood   there    handed   her  up  a  letter. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it  belongs  to  Mrs.  Burgess  or 
not.  The  address  has  been  changed  so  many  times, 
but  the  postmaster  said  I  was  to  ask  you." 

"  Very  well,"  was  the  answer,  and  as  Gulielma 
turned  back,  a  letter  in  her  hand,  she  found  Anna  sit- 
ting up,  leaning  upon  her  elbow,  her  eyes  strangely 
eager.  She  held  out  her  hand,  not  speaking,  and 
received  the  letter.  The  upper  line,  which  struck  her 
eyes  instantly,  was  her  own  name,  and  it  had  been 
written  by  Keith.  She  could  not  be  mistaken.  The 
mother's  anxious  eyes  saw  every  trace  of  colour  ebb  away 


Night  347 

from  Anna's  face  and  lips,  and  then  stream  back  until 
the  faint  flush  rose  to  her  forehead.  She  had  not 
stopped  to  decipher  the  many  addresses  written  below, 
crossed  and  recrossed  by  many  pens,  but,  seeing  her  own 
name  written  by  the  dear  dead  hand,  she  pressed  the 
letter  hard  against  her  heart  and  so  lay  a  moment,  silent. 

Soon  she  looked  up  and  met  her  mother's  eyes.  A 
wistful,  heart-breaking  request  was  in  her  own,  which 
she  hardly  dared  to  speak. 

"  May  I  be  all  alone,  mother  ?  "  she  asked  faintly ; 
"  my  letter  is  from  him.  It  has  gone  wrong,  but  it  has 
come  to  me,  you  see,  at  last.  In  the  morning  I  will  see 
you.      I  will  tell  you  then — all." 

In  another  minute,  the  door  quietly  closing,  Anna 
found  herself  alone.  Breaking  the  seal,  she  saw  that  the 
letter  had  been  written  three  days  before  Keith's  death. 
An  error  in  the  original  address,  doubtless  due  to  his 
exhaustion,  had  sent  it  far  astray.      The  letter  said  :  — 

My  own  Anna,  —  I  am  here  in  Raleigh  in  a  com- 
fortable house,  and  with  kind  people,  but  I  fear  that 
I  am  very  ill,  and  that  the  end  is  now  not  far  away, 
and  I  want  you  as  soon  as  you  can  come  to  me.  I 
hope  there  will  be  no  need  of  alarming  you  with  a  tele- 
gram, for  I  know  that  you  will  start  as  soon  as  this 
reaches  you,  and  that  will  be  in  good  time. 

Do  not  think  that  this  crisis  is  sudden  and  unfore- 
seen. The  physician  in  Baltimore  told  me  plainly  that  I 
could  have  but  a  short  time  to  live,  and  when  I  knew 
that  I  hastened  to  reach  you  as  quickly  as  I  might.  It 
was  for  you  only,  Anna,  in  all  the  world  that  I  longed. 
I  believed  that  a  few  weeks  of  quietness  were  for  us, 
not  harder  than  we  could  bear,  being-  together. 


348  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

I  think  you  will  know  that  something  turned  me 
back  almost  at  my  journey's  end.  John  Gregory  is 
honest,  and  he  will  tell  you,  if  indeed  he  knows  himself. 

I  do  not  know  now  what  he  said  to  me,  I  do  not 
care  to  remember.  Whatever  it  was  it  should  have  had 
no  weight,  being  spoken,  I  know,  under  some  strong  ex- 
citement, but  with  it  there  went  that  strange,  irresistible 
influence  which  Gregory  exerts  over  me,  and  before 
which  I  was,  or  seemed  to  myself,  powerless.  I  felt 
his  will  was  for  me  to  go  back,  not  onward  to  you,  and 
I  yielded  as  if  unable  to  do  otherwise.  I  do  not  know, 
I  cannot  understand.  I  wish  it  had  not  been  so,  but 
rather  for  him  than  for  myself,  for  I  know  that  in  his 
higher  mood  the  thought  of  that  night  must  be  hateful 
to  him. 

I  want  to  say  now  while  I  can  that  neither  you  nor 
he  must  look  upon  these  events  in  a  way  to  exaggerate 
or  overemphasize  their  importance.  I  can  see  that  you 
with  your  sensitive  conscience  and  he  with  his  great 
moral  severity  may  judge  over  hardly.  The  difference 
to  me  has  not  been  great.  The  end  was  very  near,  and 
is  not  hastened,  and  I  shall  see  you  yet  before  it  comes. 
If  I  had  not  been  weak  I  should  have  kept  on  my  way. 
It  was  my  weakness  that  sent  me  back  rather  than  the 
outward  compulsion. 

I  shall  not  want  to  talk  of  this  when  I  see  you, 
Anna,  and  so  I  will  write  to-dav  some  things  which  have 
come  to  my  mind  this  winter,  for  I  have  come  to  see 
many  things  in  a  new  light. 

John  Gregory  loves  you.  I  do  not  blame  him  for 
that,  nor  wonder.  "  We  needs  must  love  the  highest 
when  we  see  it."  He  is  a  man  of  great  power  and  of 
the  highest  spiritual  ambition.      Pie  is  far  nearer  to  you 


Night  349 

in  ability  than  I ;  he  could  enter  more  deeply  into  your 
purposes  and  sympathize  in  fuller  measure  with  your 
intellectual  life.  I  believe  you  could  have  loved  him,  if 
you  had  been  free,  and  that  the  union  of  two  such 
natures  would  have  been  nobly  effective  for  good.  But 
I  found  you  first,  and  with  my  fond  dream  that  a  sign 
was  given  me,  won  you  for  my  wife.      What  then  ? 

It  fell  to  my  part,  although  not  of  my  own  will,  to 
give  your  life  the  shape  it  has  taken.  Sometimes  I  see 
plainly  that  I,  a  poor,  pale,  colourless  fellow,  wholly 
beneath  both  you  and  John  Gregory,  have  maimed  both 
your  lives,  so  much  stronger  and  more  potential  than 
mine  could  ever  be. 

And  yet,  Anna,  for  all  this  I  cannot  wish  the  past 
undone.  I  claim  you  wholly,  heartily,  for  my  own,  and 
whatever  the  future  may  hold  for  you,  and  however  the 
past  has  tried  you,  I  believe  in  your  love  for  me,  and  in 
the  union  of  our  spirits.  My  heart  is  at  rest.  My  trust 
in  you  is  absolute  and  beyond  hurt  or  harm,  and  all  the 
joy  my  life  has  known  has  come  through  you,  my  true 
and  faithful  wife.  Never  doubt  this  if  you  love  me 
and  would  honour  my  name. 

I  wish  to  lay  no  hint  of  limitation  or  direction  upon 
your  future.  Wherever  you  go,  the  dear  Lord  will  go 
with  you,  and  you  will  bring  peace  and  consolation. 
You  cannot  go  astray,  nor  your  work  be  brought  to 
naught,  for  God  is  with  you.  All  that  I  have  is  yours 
without  reserve  or  condition,  beyond  the  few  legacies  I 
have  named  in  a  letter  to  my  lawyer  in  Fulham.  Use 
what  was  ours  together  freely  wherever  you  will, 
whether  to  establish  Fraternia,  or  in  any  line  of  effort 
which  appeals  to  you.  My  keenest  regret  is  that  here- 
tofore I  have  withheld  from  you  what  you  desired.      For- 


3  50  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

give  me.      Those  scruples  look  small  and   mean  to  me 
to-day. 

Good  night,  my  Anna  —  my  Benigna,  my  highest 
grace  and  blessing. 

Do  not  think  of  me  as  left  comfortless.  I  am  not 
alone.  The  King  is  at  the  door,  and  I  hear  his  voice. 
He  has  even  come  in  and  will  sup  with  me  and  I  with 
him. 

Let  his  peace  be  upon  us  both. 

Keith. 


It  was  morning. 

Entering  her  room,  Gulielma  Mallison  found  Anna 
fully  dressed,  standing  in  a  stream  of  sunshine,  with  a 
brighter  light  than  that  of  the  sun  upon  her  face. 

"  Oh,  mother !  "  she  cried,  stretching  out  both  her 
hands,  "  I  can  live.  I  can  sleep.  I  can  even  cry  now. 
Oh,  these  tears  !  how  they  have  fallen  like  rain  on  a 
thirsty  ground.  See,  mother  ;  after  all  I  am  young  still 
and  strong.  Feel  my  pulse,  how  full  it  is  this  morning, 
how  strong  and  steady !  I  am  at  peace.  The  peace 
of  God  has  come  to  me  at  last.  Keith  has  comforted 
me." 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 

Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the  rains  and  the  sun, 
To  spread  and  span  like  the  catholic  man  who  hath  mightily  won 
God  out  of  knowledge  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain 
And  sight  out  of  blindness  and  purity  out  of  a  stain. 

—  Sidney  Lanier. 

While  we  are  not  to  forget  that  we  have  fallen,  we  are  not  always  to  carry 
the  mud  with  us  ;  the  slough  is  behind,  but  the  clean,  clearly  defined  road 
stretches  ahead  of  us  ;  skies  are  clear,  and  God  is  beyond.  We  were  made  for 
purity,  truth,  and  fidelity,  and  the  very  abhorrence  of  the  opposite  of  these 
qualities  bears  testimony  that  our  aspirations  are  becoming  our  attainments.  The 
really  noble  thing  about  any  man  or  woman  is  not  freedom  from  all  the  stains 
of  the  lower  life,  but  the  deathless  aspirations  which  forever  drive  us  forward. 
.  .  .  Better  a  thousand  times  the  eager  and  passionate  fleeing  to  God  from  a 
past  of  faults  and  weaknesses,  with  an  irresistible  longing  to  rest  in  the  everlast- 
ing verities,  than  the  most  respectable  career  which  misses  this  profound  impulse. 

—  Anon. 

It  was  Easter  morning  in  Bethlehem.  The  stars 
still  shone  in  the  sky,  and  the  little  town  lay  in  the  hush 
and  stillness  which  precede  the  earliest  dawn,  when  sud- 
denly, far  off,  like  a  whisper  from  the  sky,  the  tones  of 
the  trumpets  could  be  heard  announcing  the  risen 
Christ. 

Down  through  the  quiet  streets  passed  the  solemn 
choir,  the  trombones  blowing  their  deep-breathino-  mel- 
ody in  full  and  thrilling  power.  They  stopped  for  a 
little  space  upon  the  bridge,  and  as  their  herald  choral 
swelled  and  grew  and  filled  the  air,  lights  came  out  in 
visible  response  here  and  there  throughout  the  sleeping 
town;   and  as  they  passed  on   down   the  streets,  under 

35i 


352  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

the  starlit  sky,  groups  of  men  and  women  joined  them 
in  quiet  fashion  until  the  procession  grew  to  a  great 
though  silent  throng. 

From  the  Widows'  House  Gulielma  Mallison  and 
Anna  came  out  and  stood  together  for  a  moment  in  the 
dusk,  watching  the  approaching  stream  of  people  as  it 
moved  forward  in  the  gloom,  and  listening  to  the  strains 
of  music  which  called  to  their  ears  :  — 

"  Rise,  heart ;   thy  Lord  is  risen  !  " 

Soon  the  procession  had  reached  their  door,  and,  join- 
ing it  with  humble  gladness,  mother  and  daughter  fol- 
lowed with  the  rest,  greeting  their  friends  and  neighbours 
in  simple,  heartfelt  kindliness. 

The  church  was  reached,  and  within  it  a  solemn  ser- 
vice was  begun,  and  continued  until  the  brightening  of  the 
eastern  sky  gave  token  of  the  sunrise.  Then,  as  with 
one  accord,  and  with  the  quietness  of  dear  and  familiar 
custom,  the  great  congregation  streamed  out  into  the 
twilight  of  the  early  dawn,  and,  again  forming  in  proces- 
sion, moved  forward  up  the  winding  hill  to  the  cemetery, 
the  choir  with  the  pastor  leading  the  way. 

It  was  an  early  spring,  and  on  the  air  was  the  thrill 
of  awakening  life.  As  she  stood  in  the  midst  of  the 
reverent  throng  now  waiting,  as  if  expectant,  in  the  still 
churchyard,  Anna  felt  the  deep  significance  of  the  time 
as  it  had  never  been  given  her  to  feel  it  before. 

Again  the  trombones  poured  forth  their  deep,  yearn- 
ing music  in  the  ancient  Easter  hymn,  the  people  sing- 
ing in  full  chorus  :  — 

"Amen  !   Come,  Lord  Jesus  !      Come,  we  implore  thee  ; 
With  longing  hearts  we  now  are  waiting  for  thee  ; 
Come  soon,  O  come  ! ' ' 


Night  353 

Then  followed,  in  slow,  rhythmic  chant,  the  noble 
words  of  the  old  Moravian  liturgy  :  — 

"This  is  my  Lord,  who  redeemed  me,  a  lost  and  undone 
human  creature,  purchased  and  gained  me  from  all  sin,  from 
death  and  from  the  power  of  the  devil  ; 

"  Not  with  gold  or  silver,  but  with  his  holy,  precious  blood, 
and  with  his  innocent  suffering  and  dying  ; 

"  To  the  end  that  I  should  be  his  own,  and  in  his  kingdom 
live  under  him  and  serve  him  in  eternal  righteousness,  innocence, 
and  happiness  ; 

"So  as  he,  being  risen  from  the  dead,  liveth  and  reigneth 
world  without  end." 

With  awe  and  joy  came  back  the  great  volume  of 
the  response  :  — 

"  This  I  most  certainly  believe." 

"  Keep  us,  oh  Lord,"  came  then  the  prayer,  "  in  ever- 
lasting fellowship  with  those  of  our  brethren  who  since 
Easter  Day  have  entered  into  the  joy  of  their  Lord  and 
with  the  whole  Church  triumphant,  and  let  us  rest 
together  in   thy  presence  from  our  labours." 

The  sun  rose.  The  quiet  God's  Acre  was  gilded 
with  its  misty  beams,  and  the  pale  opal  tints  of  the 
morning  clouds  reflected  its  glory.  From  the  whole 
assembly  burst  forth  the  mighty  hallelujahs  of  the  hymn 
of  praise,  borne  up  by  the  deep  diapason  of  the  trump- 
ets :  — 

"The  Lord  is  risen.      He  is  indeed  risen." 

As  Anna  came  out  of  the  churchyard  in  the  sunrise 
light,  the  peace  of  God  was  in  her  look,  and  the  victory 
of  the  Resurrection  morning  shone  in  her  eyes. 

Hardly  had  she  reached  the  street,  when  some  one 


354  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

who  had  stood,  awaiting  her  coming,  put  out  his  hand 
and  greeted  her.      It  was  Pierce  Everett. 

"  I  saw  you  in  the  churchyard,"  he  said.  "  I  wish 
to  speak  to  you  now,  if  I  may." 

Anna  welcomed  him  with  quiet  gladness,  and  they 
walked  on  together  through  the  street,  until  they  were 
beyond  the  crowd.      Then  Anna  asked  :  — 

"  Do  you  come  from  Fulham  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  was  the  answer,  "  from  Fraternia,  or  from 
what  was  Fraternia.  My  home  is  there  now,  and  will 
be." 

"  I  did  not  know,"  Anna  said  simply,  not  finding  it 
easy  to  say  more. 

"  There  is  little  left  there  now  of  the  old  village  or 
of  the  old  life.  Even  the  name  is  gone.  They  call  it 
Gregory's  now." 

u  I  heard  that  the  land  had  gone  into  the  hands  of 
the  man  who  held  the  mortgage." 

"Yes,  it  is  all  gone  now;  all  except  the  bit  of  ground 
that  Mr.  Gregory's  house  stands  on.  The  house  and 
land  we  have  kept  for  our  own." 

"And  there  you  live  alone?     Are  all  the  others  gone?" 

"  Nearly  all.  Some  stay  and  work  in  the  cotton  mill, 
which  has  been  enlarged,  but  the  cabins  are  mostly  used 
now  by  the  coloured  people  who  work  the  land,  and  are 
employed  also  in  the  mill." 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  Everett 
said  :  — 

"  We  have  heard  that  you  are  going  soon  to  India. 
Is  it  true  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  go  next  month." 

"  As  a  teacher  ?  " 

*l  Yes,  partly,  but  I  am  also  to  be  connected  with  a 


Night  3SS 

hospital.  You  know  that  is  work  which  I  have  always 
liked,  and  this  is  to  be  a  new  hospital,  bearing  my  hus- 
band's name." 

Everett  was  silent,  and  Anna  noted  as  she  had  not 
before  the  profound  sadness  of  his  face.  Presently  he 
looked  at  her  with  undisguised  anxiety  and  asked  a  ques- 
tion which  she  had  already  begun  to  dread. 

"  Would  you  be  willing  to  see  Mr.  Gregory  before 
you  go  ?  " 

A  painful  change  passed  over  Anna's  face. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  replied  quickly  ;  "  it  is  not  necessary. 
Is  he  here,  Mr.  Everett?  Did  he  come  with  you?" 
and  he  noticed  that  she  trembled  and  lost  colour. 

"  No,"  he  answered  very  gently  ;  "  do  not  be  troubled. 
He  is  not  here.  He  will  not  seek  to  find  or  follow  you. 
He  will  never  leave  Fraternia  again." 

Her  eyes  questioned  his  face,  for  it  was  impossible  not 
to  detect  some  melancholy  significance  in  his  words. 

"  Mr.  Gregory  has  received  a  severe  injury,"  Everett 
went  on,  as  if  in  answer  to  her  look.  "  It  was  a  month 
ago.  He  was  at  work  with  the  lumbermen  up  in  the 
ravine.  He  was  working  midway  of  the  river,  which 
was  unusually  high,  and  he  slipped  and  fell.  Before  he 
could  get  to  his  feet,  a  heavy  log  which  was  carried  for- 
ward very  swiftly  by  the  current  struck  him  with  tre- 
mendous force  and  stunned  him.  We  were  near  enough 
to  reach  him  almost  immediately,  but  the  blow  was  on 
the  spine,  and  it  produced  instantaneous  paralysis.  He 
will  never  walk  again." 

Swift  changes  had  passed  over  Anna's  face.  In  a 
softened  voice  she  said  :  — 

"  How  strange,  how  very  terrible.  Is  he  himself  in 
other  ways  ?  " 


356  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  Perfectly.  His  mind  was  never  clearer  nor  more 
active.  I  think  he  was  never  stronger  in  spirit.  His 
body  is  a  magnificent  wreck,  that  is  all." 

"And  he  does  not  wish  to  leave  Fraternia  ?  " 

"  No,  I  think  nothing  could  suit  him  so  well  as  our 
little  stronghold  in  the  solitude  there.  He  does  not 
mind  the  changes  even,  as  one  would  expect.  There 
is  no  bitterness.  He  is  too  large-minded  for  that.  He 
acknowledges  himself  defeated,  but  his  faith  is  still 
strong  in  his  cause." 

"  And  how  about  yourself?  " 

"  I  am  with  him,  heart  and  soul,"  Everett  answered, 
with  strong  emphasis  ;  "  nothing  could  take  me  from 
him  now,  —  unless  my  presence  ceased  to  be  acceptable 
to  him.  He  is,  in  spite  of  all  that  has  passed  of  failure 
and  defeat,  my  leader,  and  will  be  to  the  end.  He  is 
imperfect,  being  human  ;  perhaps  there  are  men  least 
in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  who  are  greater  than  he. 
Nevertheless,  he  is  the  bravest  man  I  have  ever  known 
and  the  most  sincere, —  I  would  almost  add,  the  humblest. 
So  we  live  on  together.  He  writes,  I  paint.  Barnabas 
takes  care  of  the  house  for  us,  and  little  Judith  gives  us 
the  touch  of  womanhood  we  need  to  humanize  us.  An 
oddly  assorted  family  perhaps,  but  we  are  satisfied." 

Anna  listened  with  intense  eagerness  to  every  word, 
and  found  sincere  satisfaction  in  the  simple  picture 
which  Everett  had  thus  drawn  for  her. 

"And  you  have  come  to  Bethlehem  —  "  Anna  hesi- 
tated, and  Everett  took  up  the  word  quickly. 

"  I  have  come  all  the  way  from  Fraternia  to  ask  you 
to  go  back  with  me  and  see  John  Gregory  once  more. 
He  may  live  for  a  number  of  years,  but  it  is  hardly 
probable  that  you  ever  will  see  him  again.      He  asks  this 


Night  357 

as  the  greatest  kindness  you  can  do  him,  but  he  told 
me  to  say  that,  if  you  do  not  feel  that  you  can  go,  he 
will  still  be  perfectly  sure  that  you  are  doing  right." 

Something  in  the  new  note  of  humility,  of  submission, 
in  the  implied  finality  of  the  request,  most  of  all  the 
vision  of  the  strong  man  in  his  present  helplessness  and 
acknowledged  defeat,  wrought  powerfully  upon  Anna's 
resolution. 

They  walked  on  silently  for  some  moments,  and  then, 
turning  abruptly  to  retrace  her  steps  into  the  town, 
Anna  said  :  — 

"  Yes,  I  will  go  with  you.  We  will  start  to-morrow 
morning." 

It  was  late  on  Tuesday  afternoon  when  they  reached 
the  valley.  As  they  drove  past  the  mill  Anna  gave  a 
sudden  exclamation  of  dismay  as  she  caught  a  passing 
glimpse  of  a  well-remembered  figure  which  she  least 
expected  to  see  again  in  Fraternia. 

"  That  could  not  be  Oliver  Ingraham,"  she  cried, 
"  and  yet  no  other  man  could  look  like  him." 

"  It  was  Oliver  himself,"  said  Everett,  smiling  a  little. 
"  How  can  it  be  ?     What  has  happened  ?  " 
"  To  begin  with,  I  should  tell  you  that  Mr.  Gregory 
succeeded  in  paying  back,  even  to  the  last  dollar,  Mr. 
Ingraham's  contribution." 
Anna's  face  grew  brighter. 
"  I  am  glad,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  it  was  better,  I  am  sure.  But  when  this  was 
accomplished  a  sense  of  compunction  seized  him  toward 
Oliver  for  some  fancied  harshness  in  the  past.  Six 
months  ago  he  sent  for  him  to  come  if  he  would,  and  he 
appeared  promptly.  Mr.  Gregory  had  conceived  the 
idea  that  something  better  could  be  made  of  the    man 


35$  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

under  right  influences,  and  he  determined  to  make  the 
attempt." 

"  Can  you  see  any  change  ?  "  asked  Anna,  still  incredu- 
lous. 

"  It  was  rather  hopeless  for  a  time,  only  that  he  so 
evidently,  for  all  his  former  spleen  and  spite,  came  to 
have  a  regard  for  Mr.  Gregory,  himself,  approaching 
worship.  But  when  the  accident  happened  up  in  the 
woods  and  he  saw  Mr.  Gregory  helpless  as  he  is  now, 
it  seemed  to  produce  an  extraordinary  change  in  the  fel- 
low. He  is  softened  and  humanized  in  a  marvellous  de- 
gree. He  can  never  be  wholesome  exactly  to  ordinary 
mortals.  I  sometimes  think  he  is  a  snake  still,  but  a  snake 
with  its  poisonous  fangs  drawn.  Yes,  Mr.  Gregory  has 
made  it  possible  to  hope  for  good  even  from  Oliver." 

"  Only  a  great  nature  could  have  made  that  possible," 
said  Anna,  musingly. 

"Yes,"  responded  Everett,  "and  only  then  a  great 
nature  which  had  learned  obedience  by  the  things  which 
it  suffered." 

Anna  was  silent.  This  action  of  Gregory's  seemed 
very  great  to  her,  so  wholly  was  it  in  opposition  to  his 
deep,  instinctive  antipathy  toward  Oliver.  This  man 
had  seemed  to  embody  in  himself  the  evil  forces  which 
had  entered  Fraternia  to  destroy  all  of  highest  hope  and 
purpose  with  which  it  had  been  established.  And  now 
Gregory  had  stooped  to  lift  up,  even  to  draw  to  himself, 
the  man  in  all  his  hideous  moral  ugliness.  Idealist  as 
Anna  had  ever  been,  she  saw  in  the  nature  thus  revealed 
to  her,  in  spite  of  failures  and  falls,  a  more  robust  vir- 
tue, a  higher  spiritual  efficacy,  than  any  of  which  she  had 
known  or  dreamed.  Again  she  found  herself  convicted 
of  a  too  narrow  and  partial  view  of  the  working  of  the 


Night  2S9 

human  spirit  in  her  passionate  withdrawal  from  Gregory 
in  his  time  of  temptation. 

They  had  crossed  the  bridge  now,  and  up  the  wooded 
slope  Anna  saw  Barnabas  and  little  Judith  standing 
before  the  door  of  Gregory's  cabin.  With  simple  and 
unaffected  delight  they  welcomed  her,  and  then  suffered 
her  to  enter  the  house  alone. 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  her,  Barnabas  came 
up  quietly  and  took  his  place  upon  the  rude  steps  which 
his  hands  had  laid,  and  so  sat,  throughout  the  interview, 
as  one  self-stationed,  to  keep  guard. 

The  interior  of  the  cabin  was  as  it  had  always  been, 
with  its  rude  furniture  and  its  one  picture,  save  that 
a  broad  and  capacious  couch  covered  with  leather  stood 
with  its  head  just  below  the  south  window.  On  this 
couch,  with  a  rug  of  grey  foxskin  thrown  over  his 
limbs,  lay  John  Gregory,  his  head  and  shoulders 
propped  high,  his  powerful  hands  lying  by  his  sides  with 
their  own  expression  of  enforced  idleness. 

He  lifted  his  head  as  Anna  entered,  and  leaned  forward, 
raising  his  right  hand  in  a  pathetic  salutation  of  reverence 
and  gratitude. 

Overcome  by  the  new  and  more  august  repose  of  his 
face  and  by  the  pathos  of  his  look  and  gesture,  Anna 
crossed  to  where  Gregory  lay,  and  fell  upon  her  knees 
by  his  side,  her  tears  bathing  his  hand,  although  this  she 
did  not  know. 

For  a  space  neither  spoke  nor  moved.  Then,  as  she 
rose  from  her  knees,  Anna  said  under  her  breath  :  — 

"  Life  is  greater  than  I  thought." 

"  Life  is  great,"  returned  Gregory,  "  because  we  live 
in  God."  Then  he  asked  humbly,  all  the  fire  of  his 
earlier  habit  of  speech  quenched, — 


360  A   Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  Do  you  then  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  forgiven  you,"  she  said  softly.  "  I 
could  not  until,  months  after  my  husband's  death,  a 
letter  came  to  me  from  him,  which  had  been  lost  long 
in  reaching  me.  It  was  so  noble,  so  great,  so  reconcil- 
ing, that  it  sufficed  for  all  —  even  that,"  she  added,  with 
unsparing  truthfulness.     Then,  even  more  gently  :  — 

"  It  is  altogether  from  him  that  I  am  here  to-day. 
I  could  never  have  seen  you  again  if  it  had  not  been  for 
that  letter." 

"  Then  I  owe  to  him  the  greatest  mercy  of  my  life," 
said  John  Gregory,  solemnly,  "  and  it  is  fitting  that  I 
should.  He  was  a  gentler  man  than  I,  a  better  man.  I 
did  not  rightly  appreciate  him  when  he  was  among  us." 

"He  had  no  noisy  virtues,"  Anna  said.  "I  think 
none  of  us  perceived  fully  what  he  was  until  he  was 
gone." 

Then  with  great  delicacy  she  told  Gregory  all  that 
the  letter  had  brought  of  reconcilement,  and  especially 
the  word  to  him.  He  heard  it  in  brooding  silence,  and 
his  face  grew  very  calm. 

"  I  wanted  you  to  know,"  Gregory  began  after  a 
lonp-  pause,  "  that  my  feeling  toward  you  has  not  been 
evil  or  base  or  wholly  selfish.  From  the  time  I  first 
saw  that  picture,"  and  he  pointed  to  that  above  the  fire- 
place, "you  became  to  me  a  kind  of  religion.  You 
stood  to  me  for  the  absolute  purity  of  my  ideal,  un- 
tainted by  self  and  sin  and  even  sorrow.  That  picture 
gave  you  to  me  as  a  virgin  soul  in  the  first  dawning  of 
a  great  and  noble  expectation.  It  was  a  picture  which 
a  Galahad  might  have  worshipped.  But  alas  !  I  was  no 
Galahad. 

"  I  was  bringing  the  picture  back  to  this  country,  and 


Night  361 

it  happened,  although  you  never  knew  it,  that  I  crossed 
on  the  same  ship  with  you." 

"  How  could  it  have  been,"  cried  Anna,  "  that  I  never 


saw  you 


"  I  was  with  my  East  London  people  in  the  other 
part  of  the  ship.  But  I  used  often  to  see  you  with  your 
husband  and  with  the  many  friends  who  always  made  a 
circle  about  you,  and  I  fancied  I  saw  a  change  in  your 
look,  —  a  change  which  betokened  a  gradual  dimming  of 
your  higher  vision,  a  fading  of  your  ideal.  I  thought  the 
people  about  you  were  changing  you  to  their  own  like- 
ness in  some  degree,  and  the  thought  haunted  and  dis- 
turbed me  more  than  I  had  a  right  to  let  it. 

"  I  came  to  Fulham  with  the  picture,  which  I  had 
promised  to  return  to  Everett.  When  I  reached  his 
house  late  in  the  evening,  his  mother  received  me  and 
told  me  that  he  and  *  all  the  world  '  were  at  a  great  re- 
ception at  your  house.  She  further  told  me  that  your 
husband's  mother  had  confided  in  her  her  hopes  and 
her  confidence  that  a  new  era  of  social  leadership  was 
now  before  you,  and  added  that  you  were  indeed  already 
quite  '  the  fashion  '  in  Fulham's  aristocratic  circle. 

"  I  had  hardly  an  hour  in  Fulham  —  hardly  a  moment 
to  reflect.  I  acted  on  my  impulse  and  sought  you  and 
called  you  out  from  your  brilliant  company.  You  know 
what  I  said.  My  motive  was  pure,  I  think,  whether  the 
action  were  well  judged  or  ill.  When  I  saw  you  before 
me  in  that  brief  interview,  in  your  loveliness,  and  in  the 
docility  which  underlay  your  frank  and  candid  joy,  a 
strange  impulse  arose  in  me  to  gain  some  spiritual  con- 
trol over  you,  to  have  an  essential  influence  over  your 
thinking  and  to  direct  your  development  and  your  activ- 
ity as  I  believed  would  be  noblest  and  best. 


362  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  Naturally  I  had  no  opportunity  to  carry  out  such  an 
impulse  for  a  long  period,  but  I  think  it  never  left  me. 
When  I  saw  you  that  night  in  the  audience  at  Burlington, 
I  knew  that  you  would  go  to  Fraternia.  I  determined 
in  my  own  heart  that  if  it  could  be  right,  you  should. 
There  was  no  thought  then  or  for  many  months  that 
anything  could  arise  between  us  which  could  impair  our 
faith  and  duty.  Indeed,  I  never  knew  myself  that  it 
was  you  who  had  wholly  mastered  me  rather  than  I  you, 
until  that  day  on  Eagle  Rock.  When  I  left  Fraternia 
that  night,  I  knew  all  —  to  the  very  depth.  I  understood 
the  blindness  and  tyranny  of  my  passion,  and  I  left, 
meaning  never  to  see  you  again.  Benigna,  I  did  not  have 
it  in  my  heart  to  do  you  wrong,  least  of  all  to  do  wrong 
to  your  husband.  It  was  the  suddenness  of  his  coming 
before  me,  and  the  struggle  I  was  myself  undergoing, 
which  threw  me  at  the  moment  into  a  kind  of  still 
frenzy  of  evil  impulse.  Gladly  would  I  have  died  to 
atone  for  it. 

"  Now,  looking  back,  I  almost  think  I  can  see  that 
I  was  permitted,  so  far  as  my  individual  life  was  con- 
cerned, to  reach  some  climax  of  pride  and  passion,  that  I 
might  be  brought  low  in  my  humiliation.  Perhaps  in  no 
other  way  could  I  have  learned  the  way  of  the  Cross 
than  through  seeing  the  failure  of  my  own  strength,  in 
which  God  knew,  I  see  now,  I  had  taken  an  uncon- 
scious pride. 

M  There  is  nothing  left  of  it.  No  drop  of  the  worm- 
wood and  gall  has  gone  untasted.  But  I  believe 
solemnly  to-day  in  the  forgiveness  of  sins,  and  rest 
in  a  good  hope  of  salvation  through  our  Master, 
Christ." 

Again    silence  came  between    them,  a  silence  which 


Night  363 

was  full  of  peace,  and  then,  with  something  of  his  old 
abruptness,  Gregory  said  :  — 

"  And  now  you  will  tell  me  about  your  going  to  India. 
You  are  glad  to  go ;  so  much  I  understand." 

"  Yes,"  Anna  replied,  "  it  is  a  great  fulfilment.  I 
have  lived  a  whole  round  of  life  since  I  first  felt  the  call 
to  this  service,  and  now  I  come  back  to  it  with  a  pur- 
pose and  conviction  even  deeper  than  those  which  first 
inspired  me." 

"  Then  the  larger  hopes  of  final  destiny  do  not,  in  the 
end,  weaken  the  missionary  motive,  you  think  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  That  fear  belonged  only  to  the  time  of 
transition.  The  message  I  have  now  is  a  far  mightier 
and  a  more  imperative  one  than  I  had  at  first.  I  know 
something  now  of  the  reality  of  sin  and  its  terrible 
fellowship,  and  at  least  far  more  than  in  those  old  days, 
both  of  law  and  of  love.  I  have  learned  also  a  greater 
reverence  for  man  as  well  as  for  God." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  quietly  ;  "  it  is  true.  You  have  been 
in  training  for  your  work." 

"  I  am  gladder  than  I  can  tell  you,"  continued  Anna, 
"  that  I  was  withheld  from  going  out  on  such  a  mission 
with  the  hard  and  narrow  message  which  was  all  I  had 
then  to  give.  It  was  you,  Mr.  Gregory,  who  opened 
to  me  the  great  truth  of  the  unity  of  the  race,  you  who 
taught  me  to  see  that  '  redemption  is  the  movement  of 
the  whole  to  save  the  part.'  I  share  the  burden  of  sin 
and  suffering  with  all  my  fellow-men,  and  I  simply  seek 
to  lift  that  burden  so  far  as  I  may  where  it  presses  most 
sorely.  Can  there  be  any  doubt  that  this  is  where  Christ 
is  not  known,  —  among  pagan  nations  ?  " 

John  Gregory  thought  for  a  moment  before  he  replied. 
"  I    believe    you    are    right,"    he    said    finally.      "  The 


364  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

needs  there  are  grosser  than  here,  and  they  are  actual 
and  intolerable  ;  inherent  in  the  system,  not  artificial. 
You  have  the  gift  of  high  ministry.  You  used  it  with- 
out stint  for  our  people  here  in  Fraternia,  but  the 
issues  were  inadequate  to  your  powers  ;  for  the  condi- 
tions were,  after  all,  abnormal,  being  produced  volun- 
tarily rather  than  by  necessity." 

"Then  do  you  feci,  Mr.  Gregory,  that  the  message 
of  brotherhood,  of  equality,  cannot  be  spread  bv  such 
means  as  we  tried  in  Fraternia  ?  "  Anna  asked  timidly, 
and  yet  without  fear. 

"  I  believe  that  such  isolated,  social  experiments,  for 
many  years  at  least,  will  be  as  ours  has  been,  prema- 
ture and  ineffective.  They  are  symptoms  rather  than 
formative  agencies.  They  have  significance  as  such, 
but  are  otherwise  unproductive. 

"  I  have  not  learned  this  lesson  easily,"  he  added 
with  a  faint  return  of  his  rare  smile,  and  the  swift, 
strong  gesture  with  which  he  had  always  been  wont  to 
dash  the  hair  from  his  forehead.  Anna  knew  without 
words  that  in  the  fall  of  Fraternia  his  dearest  hopes,  his 
most  cherished  plans,  and  highest  pledges  had  fallen  too. 
It  was  not  necessary  to  open  the  old  wound  that  she 
should  know  his  pain. 

"  There  are  more  steps  between  the  clear  perception 
of  a  condition  and  the  application  of  remedial  measures 
than  I  supposed  before  I  started  our  colony  here.  I  was 
in  a  hurry,  but  God  seems  to  have  plenty  of  time. 
There  must  be  years,  generations,  perhaps  —  I  some- 
times fear  it  —  centuries  still  of  education  and  training 
before  men  understand  that  they  are  not  created  oppress- 
ors by  the  grace  of  God,  nor  oppressed  by  the  will  of 
God.      I  read  this  the  other  day,"  he  continued,  taking 


Night  365 

a  book  from  the  table  beside  him  ;  "  it  will  show  you 
what  I  mean:  'When  a  man  feels  in  himself  the  up- 
heaval of  a  new  moral  fact,  he  sees  plainly  enough  that 
that  fact  cannot  come  into  the  actual  world  all  at  once  — 
not  without  first  a  destruction  of  the  existing  order  of  so- 
ciety —  such  a  destruction  as  makes  him  feel  satanic  ; 
then  an  intellectual  revolution  ;  and  lastly  only  a  new 
order  embodying  the  new  impulse.' 

"  That  is  good,"  he  commented,  laying  the  book 
down,  "  but  what  is  said  there  in  a  few  sentences  may, 
in  actual  fulfilment,  require  several  centuries." 

"  It  is  hard  to  wait,"  said  Anna. 

"  Yes,  it  is  hard,"  Gregory  repeated,  his  eyes  resting 
on  her  face  with  that  sympathetic  response  to  her 
thought  which,  she  was  startled  to  find,  could  still  stir 
the  old  warm  tremor  in  her  heart ;  "  but  I  can  wait,  can't 
you  ?  You  can  if  you  believe,  as  we  are  bound  to  be- 
lieve, in  a  c  divine  event  toward  which  the  whole  creation 
moves.'  I  believe,  I  thank  God,  also,  that,  unworthy  and 
powerless  as  I  am  in  this  marred  soul  and  destroyed  body 
of  me,  I  can  still  hope,  still  work,  still  greet  the  unseen 
and  expect  the  impossible." 

They  talked  long,  and  Anna  rose  at  last  to  go. 

"  Oh,  you  will  be  leaving  now  !  "  John  Gregory  cried, 
as  if  he  had  forgotten  that  she  did  not  belong  to  Fra- 
ternia. 

"  Yes,"  Anna  said  gently,  "  I  am  to  return  to  Spald- 
ing in  an  hour  for  the  night,  and  I  start  home  from 
there  in  the  morning." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "that  is  right.  You  must  go;" 
but  with  the  thought  all  colour  left  his  face,  and  his 
breath  came  hard  and  fast.  She  saw  the  physical 
change  in  him  then.     She  hnd  hardly  seen  it  before. 


366  A  Woman  of  Yesterday 

"  Can  I  help  you  ?  Can  I  bring  you  anything  you 
need  ?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

He  pointed  to  a  glass  on  the  mantel,  and  said,  smiling 
faintly  :  — 

"  It  is  so  new  to  make  others  wait  on  me.  It  is  not 
quite  easy  to  lie  here  and  submit  to  be  served,  —  even 
by  you,  Benigna." 

As  she  brought  him  the  glass,  the  simple  act  of  ser- 
vice bore  with  it  a  peculiar  power  of  suggestion  and 
produced  upon  Anna  herself  an  effect  far  beyond  its 
apparent  importance ;  for,  as  she  thus  served  Gregory 
in  his  helplessness,  a  wave  of  yearning  compassion  and 
pure  womanly  tenderness  broke  over  her  heart.  He 
would  lie  here  for  years,  perhaps,  prostrate,  defeated, 
suffering,  and  she  who  had  so  loved  him  would  go  her 
way  and  leave  him  alone  and  uncomforted  !  Could  it 
be  right  ? 

Before  the  imperious  power  of  this  question  all  other 
motives  lost  their  significance. 

Greo-ory  had  recovered  from  the  sharpest  effect  of  his 
agitation,  and  raised  his  eyes  again,  full  of  patient  and 
quiet  sorrow. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  cried  low  and  breathlessly,  "  shall  I 
stay  ?  I  said  I  wished  only  to  go  where  was  most  need 
of  me.  Is  it  here  ?  Oh,  I  trust  you  wholly  now,  John 
Gregory  !  If  you  need  my  service,  I  will  serve  you 
while  we  both  live." 

Then,  as  they  faced  each  other  with  looks  of  solemn 
question,  Anna  saw  into  the  depth  of  the  man's  strong 
spirit,  and  she  was  prepared  for  what  would  follow. 

"That  might  have  been,"  he  said  very  slowly,  and  as 
if  he  were  pronouncing  his  own  doom,  "  even  that 
unspeakable  joy  ;  but  I  myself,  my  child,  made  it  impos- 


Night  367 

sible.     Do  you  no  longer  see  the  great  gulf  fixed  between 
you  and  me  ?  " 

He  was  holding  both  her  hands  now,  and  his  own 
were  firm  and  steady,  but  his  face  reflected  the  stern 
agony  of  the  moment,  while  that  of  Anna  was  white  as 
death.  A  throbbing  silence  filled  the  room,  and  all  the 
air  seemed  to  vibrate  with  the  fierce  pulsations  of  their 
hearts,  for  in  both  the  cry  arose  that  their  punishment, 
self-inflicted,  was  greater  than  they  could  bear. 

Then  calmness  fell,  for  as  with  one  consent  their  eyes 
met  again,  and  each  perceived  the  light  of  a  final  spiritual 
conquest,  and  the  shadow  of  an  ultimate  renunciation. 

Again,  as  once  before,  John  Gregory  said,  "  It  is  the 
end,"  and  thus,  most  quietly,  they  parted. 

****** 
It  was  evening  when  Anna  left  Fraternia.  As  the 
road  entered  the  woods  where  the  valley  widened  to  the 
plain,  she  turned  and  caught  a  last  glimpse  of  the  soli- 
tary light  which  shone  from  the  lowly  house  on  the 
river's  farther  side. 

Through  all  the  years  and  changes  which  remained  to 
her,  never  did  Anna  lose  the  vision  of  that  light,  shining 
apart  in  the  high  valley.  But  John  Gregory  she  never 
saw  again. 


THE    END 


